The Falcon and The Shaikhs

“A must read, incredibly believable story. A fantastic insight into the Arabic culture and customs of the UAE. A wonderful trip down memory lane for me as an ex- Dubai resident. I couldn’t put it down.”

—Cherry Ward. Hertfordshire. United Kingdom

“I thoroughly enjoyed the Mafia side of this novel and their involvement.

No matter what the obstacle, they always came up with a solution.”

—Linda Genco-Pereira and Giuseppe Pereira, Florida, USA “After living over 40 years in Dubai, and watching this remarkable country develop, I was transported on a journey to 1965 where the characters, though fictional, felt familiar. This is a rebirth of an exhilarating historical adventure about a slice of life in a region that once offered the spicy vibrancy and colour of an era now relegated to modernity, memory and imagination.”

—Linda Mahoney, Dubai, United Arab Emirates “Luigi’s stories are all fiction. When my book is published the real truth of Dubai’s past will be told.”

—Romero Marcello, Businessman, New Orleans “Having lived in the United Arab Emirates for many years I can truly relate to the places, and people talked about in this book. There is no doubt that it will make a great TV miniseries or major screen movie. I can attest to the many things that happened in Dubai in the early years, and what a wonderful, exciting place it was to live. This book brings it all out for the reader to enjoy, and places him in the action. I cannot wait to read the next book in this series.”

—William E. Hall, KBR Oil Field Construction, Calgary

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

A story of the USA Gulf Coast Mafia In Dubai and Ras Al Khaimah 1965-1967 As told by Luigi Falconi to John Dragonetti

As told by Luigi Falconi to John Dragonetti

In 1965, Luigi Falconi, heir apparent to Fabio Falconi, the Capo Maggiore of the US Gulf Coast Mafia, is dispatched to Dubai, a desert trading center in the Middle East, tasked with finalizing a loan deal with the government. His journey unveils the potential to transform the shaikhdom into the next Havana or Las Vegas.

Torn between family loyalty and his dream to transform their business into a legitimate enterprise, Luigi reluctantly aligns himself with his Mafia family’s agenda.

While living in Dubai, he becomes enthralled by the tribal values and cultural intricacies of the Trucial States' rulers and populace, who are trying to reconcile culture and tradition with the encroaching Western world.

Unknown to Luigi, his conniving godfather, Nic Nicandro, undermines him through illicit dealings in drugs and arms. Nic plots Luigi’s demise so he can seize control of the Mafia’s operations and control future oil profits in Dubai and Ras Al Khaimah.

Luigi forms a confederacy of like-minded adventurers including an ex-British SAS officer, a former Green Beret, a school headmaster, a covert CIA agent, and other eccentric expatriates, who join forces with the real heroes, the Rulers of Dubai and Ras Al Khaimah. Together they devise a plan to rid their Shaikhdoms of the dark side of the Mafia.

The Falcon and the Shaikhs

“Wow! What a gripping, searing, and riveting journey this book takes the reader on. When Kelly Mahoney first approached me about this book, I was skeptical that it could rival the great Mafia movies. Seeing the pre-print release of the novel, I’m convinced it will be an awards winning movie, and/or streaming series.”

—Joe Newcomb, Founder and CEO Truth Entertainment, Houston, USA www.truthentertainment.info

In 1972, the author and his family moved from the USA to Cairo, Egypt, to take the position of Headmaster of the Cairo American College. In 1974, he relocated the family to the United Arab Emirates (UAE) to become Headmaster of the American School in Dubai. Three years later, he left the education sector for a new career in business, staying in Dubai with his family until 2013, intermittently residing for brief periods in Doha, Qatar, Dar es Salaam, Tanzania, and Maputo, Mozambique.

As an international businessman he travelled to numerous Middle Eastern countries, developing a fascination with Arab history, culture, and language.

It was the stories, experiences of friends, business associates, and members of the tribal families, as well longtime resident expatriates, that really enthralled him and led to the writing of The Falcon and the Shaikhs, an historical fictional account, of the intricate relationships cultivated between pioneering expatriates and the tribal families who laid the foundation of Dubai and Ras Al Khaimah prior to the formation of the United Arab Emirates in 1971.

The Falcon and the Shaikhs can be considered as a prequel to his first novel, The Duke of Dubai, a fictional parody on some of the real life, eccentric oil field characters who really existed in the 1960s, 70s, and 80s.

“A must read, incredibly believable story. A fantastic insight into the Arabic culture and customs of the UAE. A wonderful trip down memory lane for me as an ex- Dubai resident. I couldn’t put it down.”

—Cherry Ward. Hertfordshire. United Kingdom

“I thoroughly enjoyed the Mafia side of this novel and their involvement.

No matter what the obstacle, they always came up with a solution.”

—Linda Genco-Pereira and Giuseppe Pereira, Florida, USA “After living over 40 years in Dubai, and watching this remarkable country develop, I was transported on a journey to 1965 where the characters, though fictional, felt familiar. This is a rebirth of an exhilarating historical adventure about a slice of life in a region that once offered the spicy vibrancy and colour of an era now relegated to modernity, memory and imagination.”

—Linda Mahoney, Dubai, United Arab Emirates “Luigi’s stories are all fiction. When my book is published the real truth of Dubai’s past will be told.”

—Romero Marcello, Businessman, New Orleans “Having lived in the United Arab Emirates for many years I can truly relate to the places, and people talked about in this book. There is no doubt that it will make a great TV miniseries or major screen movie. I can attest to the many things that happened in Dubai in the early years, and what a wonderful, exciting place it was to live. This book brings it all out for the reader to enjoy, and places him in the action. I cannot wait to read the next book in this series.”

—William E. Hall, KBR Oil Field Construction, Calgary

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

A story of the USA Gulf Coast Mafia In Dubai and Ras Al Khaimah 1965-1967 As told by Luigi Falconi to John Dragonetti

As told by Luigi Falconi to John Dragonetti

In 1965, Luigi Falconi, heir apparent to Fabio Falconi, the Capo Maggiore of the US Gulf Coast Mafia, is dispatched to Dubai, a desert trading center in the Middle East, tasked with finalizing a loan deal with the government. His journey unveils the potential to transform the shaikhdom into the next Havana or Las Vegas.

Torn between family loyalty and his dream to transform their business into a legitimate enterprise, Luigi reluctantly aligns himself with his Mafia family’s agenda.

While living in Dubai, he becomes enthralled by the tribal values and cultural intricacies of the Trucial States' rulers and populace, who are trying to reconcile culture and tradition with the encroaching Western world.

Unknown to Luigi, his conniving godfather, Nic Nicandro, undermines him through illicit dealings in drugs and arms. Nic plots Luigi’s demise so he can seize control of the Mafia’s operations and control future oil profits in Dubai and Ras Al Khaimah.

Luigi forms a confederacy of like-minded adventurers including an ex-British SAS officer, a former Green Beret, a school headmaster, a covert CIA agent, and other eccentric expatriates, who join forces with the real heroes, the Rulers of Dubai and Ras Al Khaimah. Together they devise a plan to rid their Shaikhdoms of the dark side of the Mafia.

The Falcon and the Shaikhs

“Wow! What a gripping, searing, and riveting journey this book takes the reader on. When Kelly Mahoney first approached me about this book, I was skeptical that it could rival the great Mafia movies. Seeing the pre-print release of the novel, I’m convinced it will be an awards winning movie, and/or streaming series.”

—Joe Newcomb, Founder and CEO Truth Entertainment, Houston, USA www.truthentertainment.info

In 1972, the author and his family moved from the USA to Cairo, Egypt, to take the position of Headmaster of the Cairo American College. In 1974, he relocated the family to the United Arab Emirates (UAE) to become Headmaster of the American School in Dubai. Three years later, he left the education sector for a new career in business, staying in Dubai with his family until 2013, intermittently residing for brief periods in Doha, Qatar, Dar es Salaam, Tanzania, and Maputo, Mozambique.

As an international businessman he travelled to numerous Middle Eastern countries, developing a fascination with Arab history, culture, and language.

It was the stories, experiences of friends, business associates, and members of the tribal families, as well longtime resident expatriates, that really enthralled him and led to the writing of The Falcon and the Shaikhs, an historical fictional account, of the intricate relationships cultivated between pioneering expatriates and the tribal families who laid the foundation of Dubai and Ras Al Khaimah prior to the formation of the United Arab Emirates in 1971.

The Falcon and the Shaikhs can be considered as a prequel to his first novel, The Duke of Dubai, a fictional parody on some of the real life, eccentric oil field characters who really existed in the 1960s, 70s, and 80s.

THE FALCON and

THE SHAIKHS A Story of the USA Gulf Coast Mafia in Dubai and Ras Al Khaimah 1965-1967

As told by Luigi Falconi to John Dragonetti

Publisher Page

an imprint of Headline Books

Terra Alta, WV

The Falcon and The Shaikhs A Story of the USA Gulf Coast Mafia in Dubai and Ras Al Khaimah 1965-67 As told by Luigi Falconi to John Dragonetti copyright ©2024 John Dragonetti All rights reserved. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents, except where noted otherwise, are products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any other resemblance to actual people, places or events is entirely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any other form or for any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording or any information storage system, without written permission from Publisher Page.

DISCLAIMER: This book falls under the genre of historical fiction, based on authentic locations and a blend of actual historical occurrences along with events created by the author’s imagination. Any similarities to actual individuals, whether living or deceased, are purely coincidental. While a few characters may have been inspired by real people, the circumstances their persona find themselves in are entirely the creation of the author.

No part of this publication was created by AI. To order additional copies of this book or for book publishing information, or to contact the author: Headline Books, Inc. P.O. Box 52 Terra Alta, WV 26764 www.HeadlineBooks.com mybook@headlinebooks.com Publisher Page is an imprint of Headline Books ISBN 13: 9781958914328 Library of Congress Control Number: 2023949227 P R I N T E D I N T H E U N I T E D S T AT E S O F A M E R I C A

DEDICATION Writing, my lifelong passion, has forever posed a formidable challenge, particularly as the years advance. At the age of seventy-eight, I’ve observed that summoning the perfect word from the depths of my increasingly elusive mental lexicon, has grown progressively arduous. Nevertheless, it eventually emerges, and with the support of those close to me I carry on.

My wife, Susan, has played an indispensable role in guiding me through this literary journey. For fifty-seven years, she has been my steadfast companion, confidante, and beloved partner, offering the unwavering support and affection essential for navigating life’s odyssey.

My children, John, Dana, and Andrew, have proven to be the greatest investments my wife and I could have made. They have transcended my parenting flaws and personal imperfections, blossoming into remarkable adults and bestowing upon us the most rewarding dividends: my cherished grandchildren—Ethan, Ella, Frida, Lucia, Luca, and Enzo.

I extend heartfelt gratitude to the numerous friends I’ve made in Dubai over the decades, both fleeting and enduring, for being friends, and serving as inspirations for my literary characters.

Your friendship and influence have been invaluable to me. To Raj, my patron, to Sandy, Melanie, the two Lindas, as well as the proofreaders who detected my errors and provided constructive suggestions, I offer my sincere thanks. To all those who took the time to peruse the galley proofs and contribute their thoughts, I express my gratitude.

To the members of the ruling families and the citizens of all the Emirates, some of whom I’ve collaborated closely with, or just encountered briefly, I express my deepest appreciation for the warm hospitality and respect you’ve extended to me. You are a benevolent and devoted people achieving remarkable feats for your burgeoning nation. Thank you for graciously allowing this outsider to be a guest in your vibrant country for nearly four decades and for instilling in me a profound affection for your people, language, and culture.

IN MEMORY OF KELLY MAHONEY Above all, I dedicate this book to the memory of Kelly Mahoney, whose encouragement and captivating vision for a cinematic adaptation spurred me on to complete this extensive work. Kelly, the warmth, kindness, and affection that you graciously shared with everyone on your journey of life, will never fade from the memory of those who love you.

John Dragonetti

PART I 1965 – 66 AO ANTE OLEUM (Before Oil) Prologue .....................................................................................7 Chapter 1: Temptation in the Desert ........................................15 Chapter 2: The Meeting ...........................................................20 Chapter 3: Scouting the Terrain ...............................................36 Chapter 4: A Royal Salute........................................................50 Chapter 5: The Road Not Taken...............................................60 Chapter 6: The Bagmen ...........................................................74 Chapter 7: Ras al Khaimah ......................................................83 Chapter 8: Monday with Mohammed ......................................98 Chapter 9: Shaking Down the Shaikh....................................118 Chapter 10: The Chronicle of Rocky .....................................130 Chapter 11: Meeting the King of Kings.................................140 Chapter 12: Paris of the Middle East .....................................149 Chapter 13: London Lawyers.................................................165 Chapter 14: The Big Easy ......................................................172 Chapter 15: Vegas Nights.......................................................190 Chapter 16: Back in Dubai.....................................................201 Chapter 17: Birds of a Feather ...............................................214 Chapter 18: The Metamorphous of Dubai .............................226 PART II 1967 AO The Times They are a-Changin’ Chapter 19: The Ten Tola.......................................................242 Chapter 20: My Neighbor’s Neighbor ...................................263 Chapter 21: The Unsuspecting Spy........................................280 Chapter 22: The Poseidon Project..........................................297 Chapter 23: Fossils or Fuel ....................................................311

Chapter 24: The Six Day War ................................................331 Chapter 25: Revelations.........................................................342 Chapter 26: The Musandam Alliance.....................................362 Chapter 27: The Suakin Trough .............................................396 Chapter 28: Independence Day..............................................421 Chapter 29: The Two Princes.................................................438 Chapter 30: Chess Without Rules ..........................................448 Chapter 31: Angels and Assassins..........................................459 Chapter 32: Solving the Enigma ............................................472 Chapter 33: Tribal Triumvirate ..............................................488 Chapter 34: Planning the Strategy .........................................496 Chapter 35: The Bedouin Brigade .........................................511 Chapter 36: Karma.................................................................533 Chapter 37: The Final Fallout ................................................544 Epilogue .................................................................................550 Appendices Appendix I: Characters in the Novel .....................................559 Appendix II: Foreign Words, Phrases, and Names ................568 Appendix III: Bibliography....................................................581 Appendix IV: Chronology......................................................584

PROLOGUE In the May of 1974, a serendipitous encounter set the stage for a remarkable journey. It was in the vibrant city of Dubai, nestled within the newly formed United Arab Emirates, where I had a job interview for the role of Superintendent at the Jumairah American School, a position previously held by Luca Luchetti.

Luca, having completed his contract, was bound for the United States to pursue his Ph.D. After meeting with the school board, Luca graciously invited me to lunch at the expats favorite bar and restaurant, known as the Ten Tola, where Luca introduced me to the owners, his cousin Luigi Falconi and Luigi’s partner Sam Sweeney. I also met another cousin, Frankie Falconi. Luigi was a founding member of the school’s board of directors and still had a lot of influence in the affairs of the school.

In an instant, it seemed as if Luigi and I had known each other for ages. Perhaps it was our shared Italian heritage, our mutual passion for scuba diving, or our near-identical ages that fostered an immediate connection. Whatever the catalyst, it was clear that our rapport was instrumental in my securing the job.

And so, the following September, my wife Susan, our three children, and I embarked on a new chapter of our lives in Dubai.

As time passed, my friendship with Lou, as he now insisted that I call him, deepened. We found common ground in our fascination with Arab history, culture, and language, as well as our shared interest in the study of world religions, with a particular emphasis on Islam. Lou, a fluent Arabist with a wealth of knowledge in the local tribal history, eventually assumed 7

the role of my unofficial guide, tutor and closest confidant. He welcomed me into his personal circle, which, besides his cousin Frankie and partner Sam, included Josh Sampson, Tim Johnson, and Pat Riley.

During the thirty-eight years I spent living and working in Dubai, Ras Al Khaimah, and Umm Al Quwain, my bond with Lou transcended that of mere friendship. Gradually we became family, and Lou began to share with me the intriguing reasons behind his arrival in the Trucial States in 1965, along with the intricate relationships he cultivated with pioneering expatriates and the tribal families who laid the foundation for the future Emirates of Dubai and Ras Al Khaimah.

These revelations form the basis of the stories you will encounter in this book.

Between 1981 and 1990, Lou sought refuge in Sicily due to personal security concerns, living under the protection of influential families. I had the privilege of visiting him on several occasions during his self-imposed exile. Upon his return to Dubai in 1990, we agreed that with the passing of the Ruler of Dubai, Shaikh Rashid, the old days were over, and that it was the opportune moment to chronicle the early development of Dubai from the perspective of expatriates who had played a pivotal role in assisting the nationals and their rulers lay the groundwork for the next generation of progress.

Between 1990 and 2000, Lou and I dedicated countless hours to preserving documents, writing notes and recording his personal memories and escapades, as well as those of the individuals directly involved in these events, or who had witnessed them. Unfortunately, by 1990, many of the expatriates who could corroborate Lou’s stories had departed Dubai, either returning to their homelands or relocating elsewhere. To gather their accounts, I embarked on numerous journeys during school breaks and made special visits to their current residences. With 8

the advent of email, follow-ups became more convenient, though some of the individuals we sought had already passed away.

Lou was a man of modesty and insisted that our endeavor not become a biography of him personally, but rather a narrative of the events that transpired in those formative days. He underscored the importance of highlighting the individuals involved and the roles they played, particularly the rulers of Dubai, Shaikh Rashid bin Saeed Al Maktoum and his son Shaikh Mohammed bin Rashid, as well as the Ruler of Ras Al Khaimah, Shaikh Saqr bin Mohammed Al Qassimi and his young son Shaikh Saud bin Saqr. In Luigi’s eyes, these royals were the true heroes of the story, having expelled from their domains the criminal and political elements seeking to exploit their territories.

To safeguard both friends and foes, Luigi insisted that our stories be framed as a novel—a work of fiction. In adhering to his wishes, I constructed the fanciful narrative around factual events and history, though I altered names, adjusted timelines, and modified incidents to align with the parameters set by our storyteller.

As you delve into this novel, it’s essential to remember that it’s a work of historical fiction. Despite the creative liberties taken, it offers a unique perspective on the remarkable development of Dubai, Ras Al Khaimah, and the other Emirates, especially since the formation of the United Arab Emirates in 1971. Throughout history, great cities, from Baghdad and Constantinople to Rome, Las Vegas, and New York, have concealed dark secrets in their past that laid the groundwork for their extraordinary futures.

With an open mind, I invite you to explore these hidden tales.

The Author

9

TRUCIAL STATES - Circa 1960

10

THE UNITED ARAB EMIRATES - 1971

11

12

PART I 1965 - 1966 AO ANTE OLEUM (Before Oil)

13

14

Chapter 1 Temptation in the Desert Thursday morning in Dubai March 18, 1965

As the first light of dawn breaks, a lone dark green Land Rover turns off the tarmac of the Dubai-Hatta Road, its headlights slowly navigating the dirt track toward a large sand dune on the horizon. Soon the vehicle slows at the foot of the sand mountain. Almost before the car completely stops, the driver opens his door and rushes to open the passenger door.

Before he reaches the handle, the door opens, and a tall lanky man exits. His features are not handsome, but he has a look that projects noble heritage. His long, slim patrician nose, along with his tall and thin physique give him a regal aura. Yet, his dress, a white robe called a dishdasha topped by a long cloth headscarf, called a ghutra, held in place by a piece of black rope, or hegaal, as it is known, is typical of the Bedouin in that region of the Arabian Peninsula. But this is not a typical nomad. He is different. Draped over his shoulders is a bisht, a long black robe with golden embroidery down the border of the lapels, which gives him his majestic appearance.

The royal-looking Bedou kicks off his sandals and, with a small, rolled bundle under his right arm, treks up the side of the sandy slope. While fingering his simple black onyx prayer beads, he recites the ninety-nine names of Allah as he climbs.

Upon reaching the crest, he unrolls the bundle and lays the small 15

The Falcon and the Shaikhs

prayer rug on the top of the dune facing Mecca, the holy city where his Prophet Mohammed, peace be upon him, was born and where Islam’s most sacred shrine, the Kaaba, is located.

He sits on his legs, knees bent, back straight. After a brief time, he leans forward into the Sujud, or prostrate position, hands flat on the ground and forehead touching the prayer mat and says his sunrise Fajr prayers. The sound of “Allahu Akbar” carries softly across the quiet sand sea. “God is Great.”

Just as the sun starts its slow rise over the cool March desert, he offers peace to his fellow man, completes his prayers, and stands. The warming solar energy begins to permeate through the foggy haze, throwing light across the stark horizon and on the humble skyline of his Shaikhdom, Dubai. The royal desert dweller stares out at his town. Thinking, thinking, thinking.

Shaikh Rashid bin Saeed Al Maktoum is in his early fifties and has been Ruler for seven years, but his wisdom and years of experience when he was crown prince make him the perfect man at the right time for the role he is destined to play.

With a sixth sense inherited in his nomadic DNA, coupled with instincts for trade and business, he is always planning for the future. It is this rare extra perception that gives Shaikh Rashid, the Ruler of Dubai, an edge when planning and executing Dubai’s future path. Trading and pearling, the source of the country’s prosperity, will soon take a backseat to the inevitable oil wealth coming to his people. Yet oil is a commodity that will not last forever and can’t be depended upon to support future generations. His goal is to make Dubai self-sufficient once their petroleum resources have dried up.

Continental Oil Company recently discovered oil fields in Dubai’s offshore waters, but development will take two years, and they will not start their work until they were assured his government could fulfill their obligations to build the supporting infrastructure as required under the concession agreement. That alone can take two years and hundreds of millions of dollars.

16

As told by Luigi Falconi to John Dragonetti

Shaikh Rashid needs to prove to the oil company that Dubai has the funds to finance their obligations so that both the oil company and Dubai can simultaneously start the development phase.

But how will his small treasury meet the needs for funding what is required? The banks will give him all the money he wants once the oil reserves are proven and development begins, assuring oil flow, but they are hesitant to gamble on the promises of a foreign oil company until they are convinced that production is inevitable. He needs outside resources.

Gazing at the modest skyline of the city, his eyes take on a sparkle. Is it the angle of the rising sun or did he just have a “Eureka” moment? A smile broadens across his face, and the name “Majid bin Jabir!” flows from his lips. **** Several miles on the southwest side of the of the Dubai-Hatta Road, a large black sedan pulls off the tarmac onto the hardpacked shoulder, stopping at the base of another sand dune. A large man in a stylish Western suit emerges from the passenger door and does a 360-decree inspection of his surroundings.

Satisfied that he is alone except for his driver, he removes his black felt Homburg, places it on the car seat, and closes the door. Heading straight toward the sandy hill, he slowly trudges up the dunes, his shiny black wingtips turning a dusty reddishbrown as he climbs. Reaching the top, he stands on the warming sand and looks in the direction of the small emerging town— more than a village, but not yet a real city. Looking at one of the few buildings that break the skyline, the seven-story Phillips Building, as residents call it, he fixates on the newly built Dubai Clocktower. Time is money.

It is 1965 and Luigi (Lou) Falconi is a young man on a mission. Having been reared in the family business since he was a kid and now armed with a Harvard MBA, he sees the future— 17

The Falcon and the Shaikhs

and his is in Dubai. With his help it will become more than a trading center—it will become a banking and finance center—a destination for the rich and famous.

Dubai is an autonomous city-state, a protectorate of the British, an independent Sheikdom, part of the Trucial States, and out of the reach of American law, especially the FBI. The Brits have dominated the area since the early 1800s, first controlling trade routes and piracy, but since World War II they have only cared about the oil under the sand he stands on. We’ll give them the oil, or at least some of it,” he whispers to himself, “but we’ll be the ones to make Dubai wealthier than the Ruler could ever dream.

Looking left to right across the Emirate, he mutters aloud to no one, “And all of this will be ours, better than Havana, bigger than Las Vegas, the new Beirut, and controlled by us.”

Like Christ resisting the devil in the Judean desert, Lou stands on his Mount of Temptation, but rather than resist, he graciously accepts the deal he just made between himself and his alter ego—one Shaitan—or devil—to another.

As Lou gazes at his car, he sees his driver waving, signaling for him to return. Slowly trekking down the sandy slope, Lou’s mind buzzes with ideas on how to turn his dream into reality.

Upon reaching the opened door of his transport, he lifts his hat and places it on his head. Sitting sideways on the seat with feet outside the car, he unties his shoes and removes them, one in each hand, turning them over to let the fine sand fall onto the ground. He removes his handkerchief from his pocket and wipes the dust from one shoe at a time, somewhat restoring their black luster. He brushes the sand from his stockings and puts his shoes back on.

Ahmet, his driver, clears his throat and addresses his passenger. “Sir, we really should get going. You have a meeting with Majid bin Jabir at his villa. We don’t want to keep him waiting.”

18

As told by Luigi Falconi to John Dragonetti

Unperturbed by his driver’s insistence, Lou calmly responds, “Please make a brief stop at my hotel first. I have a few important calls to make.” **** Arriving at the Airlines Hotel, one of the few Western-style hotels in the city, Falconi maintains an air of confidence as he ascends the stairs to his room on the third floor. Upon entering the room, he leisurely makes his way to the small desk where he picks up the phone and dials the switchboard operator. “I’d like to place an international call.”

After a brief pause, he hears the word “Pronto” at the other end of the line, Luigi greets his Uncle Fabio and asks about the family.

“Everyone here is fine mio nipoti,” his uncle answers.

“Zio Fabio, I think I just found our new home. I’ll be returning next week to brief you and Meyer and the rest of the family.

“Meyer wants to know when you’re meeting Majid bin Jabir?” Uncle Fabio asks.

“Very soon.”

“What about seeing your cousin Frankie?”

I plan to stop in Beirut and visit him at his university. I’ll let you know my flight info.”

“Buona fortuna, Luigi. Ciao,” his uncle says and hangs up the phone.

Meyer Lansky is the money man, the bookkeeping brains behind one of the largest business organizations in the world, and the five Falconi brothers are his partners. The oldest brother, Fabio, the fratello maggiore, is the head of the family—and not just the business family, but the entire Falconi clan. La familia is always first, but business is a close second.

Lou leaves his room and returns to his waiting car. Without having to ask for a destination his driver heads to Majid bin Jabir’s villa.

19

Chapter 2 The Meeting Thursday afternoon March 18, 1965

Arriving at the entrance to the villa, Ahmet repeatedly sounds the Caddie’s horn until a large man wearing a Turkish style turban, a decorated vest over a bare, muscular chest, and a handlebar mustache opens the elaborate metal gates just the width of his body. He peers toward the driver’s side of the car.

When he spots Ahmet, a smile spreads across his face and the gates hastily swing open, allowing the car to proceed into the drive.

The big Turk closes the steel doors and runs to Ahmet as he steps from the vehicle. Still smiling broadly, the large man grasps Ahmet’s right hand between his two huge ones. Rather than shaking, he keeps the captive hands at waist level and lowers his forehead to touch the back of Ahmet’s hand. Raising his head, he releases the hands, steps back two paces, and then quickly walks around the car and opens the door for Lou, who steps from the vehicle to receive the same respectful greeting.

Ahmet turns toward his boss and points to his greeter. “This is Abdul. He’s the chief guard here. He and I both served in the Turkish army. Someday, I’ll have him show you his knife and bullet scars. You don’t want to make that one angry,” he says.

Following Abdul around to the front of the villa, Lou examines the enormous but not exceedingly elaborate structure.

20

As told by Luigi Falconi to John Dragonetti

Not much for a big shot. The villa, as they referred to houses in Dubai, appears to be a simply designed two-story house with white stucco walls. The façade, stairs, and flooring of the external entrance verandah are marble, but with the local Ras Al Khaimah marble, not one of the expensive Italian varieties.

Abdul climbs the steps and opens the large, intricatelycarved rosewood door and beckons Lou into the foyer.

From this position, Lou peers into five large rooms that finger off from the anteroom like wagon spokes. Beautiful Persian carpets cover every inch of floor, and ornate chandeliers hang from the ceilings. Vibrant oil paintings decorate the richly papered and fabric-covered walls. The paintings appear to be expensive originals. But what do I know about art? The furnishings vary from room to room; some gold gilded, some red satin in the style of Louie XVI, some solid silver chairs with blue cushions, and some modern-style sofas. Mr. bin Jabir isn’t a particularly good decorator. Rather tasteless, but everything looks extremely expensive, which may be what really matters to him anyway.

Guiding him into the first room to the right of the entrance, Abdul motions for Lou to have a seat on the faux leather mahogany sofa along the back wall. Next to the couch, at a fortyfive-degree angle is a large matching overstuffed chair. A bulky desk of highly polished black ebony faces the sitting area. In front of the desk, and facing it, are two overstuffed guest chairs with the same artificial upholstery. On a shelf behind the desk an elaborately carved pair of enormous ivory tusks, each at least six feet long, are displayed. The exquisite intricate carving was flawless. No doubt extremely valuable and rare.

A middle-aged gentleman in an impeccably-tailored traditional dishdasha briskly walks into the room. In his right hand, he holds the traditional prayer beads. His uncovered head reveals perfectly barbered black hair that enhances his peering 21

The Falcon and the Shaikhs

green eyes. He scrutinizes Lou head to toe, and then walks up to his guest while focusing directly on his eyes.

As he comes closer, Lou fixates on the approaching right hand as it flicks one by one through the expensive precious stones strung together with finely crafted gold chain. He stands and offers his outstretched arm to greet his host.

Mr. bin Jabir ignores the extended hand.

Lou bites his lip. Insulted already.

But then Mr. bin Jabir steps closer and places his hands on Lou’s outside shoulders, pulling his body toward his own. He extends his head toward his guest’s face, touches his right cheek to Lou’s right cheek, and then left cheek to left cheek. “Welcome to Dubai, my friend. I hope your trip from New Orleans wasn’t too exhausting,” he says in perfectly enunciated British English.

“Long, but not as bad as if I were to come straight through.

I stopped in London to visit friends and business associates, so that broke my journey.”

Bin Jabir motions for Lou to take his seat, then sits in the large chair next to him. “Mr. Falconi, may I offer you some tea?”

“That would be very nice.”

“Please, call me Majid. We’re friends, almost family. Your Uncle Fabio and I have known each other for a long time and are business partners in several successful ventures—ever since my days in Bahrain. We used to meet occasionally in London and Beirut.”

“Have you visited him in New Orleans? It’s a great city.”

“I tend to stay out of the USA. Too many eyes, ears, and rules.”

“I know what you mean. My uncles are hassled all the time by the Kennedy boys, especially Bobby when he was Attorney General. He couldn’t legally deport Uncle Fabio, so he shanghaied him on a government plane to Guatemala, landed on a road, and left him barefoot. Then, after his brother John was killed, they tried to pin the President’s assassination on Uncle 22

As told by Luigi Falconi to John Dragonetti

Fabio. With one of them gone, the pressure has declined a bit, but I personally feel it’s only a matter of time before Bobby uses his Senate position on the McClellan Committee to find some excuse to come after legitimate businessmen like my family again.”

“I assume your uncle briefed you on our discussions.” Majid tilts his head expectantly.

“Yes, of course. He also told me of your friendship and meetings in Havana before Castro ruined the place.”

“Ahhh, Havana.” Majid smiles and looks into the distance.

“What a beautiful place. How I miss those days.”

Lou shifts in his chair. “I certainly understand the nostalgia.

I spent several years living there. My father, Paolo, managed the Riviera Hotel and Casino for Meyer and the family after it opened. We stayed in another hotel while he supervised construction, and then moved into the Riviera when it opened in December fifty-seven. We lived in it for a year until January fifty-nine when Castro took over and we had to leave the country.

I was in university, traveling there on holidays, so I wasn’t affected as much, but it was traumatic for my parents, especially my mother. Now we try to only think of the great experiences and lifestyle we lived.”

“What were you told about your visit here?”

“Uncle Fabio explained it had to do with the newly discovered oil offshore Dubai and the necessity for some investment. He also asked me to evaluate what kind of oilfield services will be needed to support your oil production.”

A young man with a plaid skirt wrapped around his waist and a white, loose-fitting blouse-like shirt, enters the room. He is one of the many workers from the Indian Subcontinent who come to the Trucial States on work visas to take labor and other menial jobs. This one had the job of preparing and serving traditional refreshments for Mr. Jabir’s guests. In his left hand, he holds a traditional Arab copper coffeepot called a dallah.

23

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What a strange design, the contour of a penguin’s body, but with a pelican beak-shaped spout.

Clutching the flask of brew in one hand while balancing two demitasse cups in the other, the attendant first serves Lou, steps back, and stands quietly watching as the foreign visitor sips the bitter brew. Seeing that he has finished, the server steps forward to refill the cup.

Before he can pour, Lou awkwardly tries to return the drained vessel. “No more, thank you.”

Looking at the Indian barista, Majid nods and the server retreats.

The attendant retrieves the cup and steps sideways toward Majid, quietly repeating the serving process. When Majid finishes, he holds the cup, face up, and rapidly waggles it right to left several times, and the attendant retrieves the empty cups and leaves the room.

“Excuse me.” Lou mimics the waggling motion. “What does that mean?”

“Ahh, very perceptive. It’s a sign indicating that the guest has finished and wants no more. The coffee-boy will continue refilling the cup until he sees the hand motion, or in the case of a foreigner, hears the internationally-known ‘no,’” he answers with a smile.

A second young Indian enters with a silver tray balancing two small glass cups on glass saucers with a small spoon laid next to the cup. He lifts one cup filled with an amber liquid and its saucer from the tray and presents it to Lou. Next, he offers a bowl of sugar cubes, which is declined. After serving Majid, the teaboy departs.

Finishing his tea, Lou puts the empty cup and saucer on the small table next to him. “The tea was refreshing—rather a nice minty flavor,” he says. “What was the spicey drink in the first cup?”

24

As told by Luigi Falconi to John Dragonetti

“That was qahwa. A traditional Arabic coffee brew of cardamon and green coffee beans, quite common in the Gulf and Arabian Peninsula. Most people in the West don’t know that coffee—or moka in Arabic—was once a major crop in our region of the world. At one time our neighbors in Yemen grew some of the best coffee in the world. Unfortunately, the growing of the green leaf narcotic qaat has become more lucrative, so the farmers no longer plant moka, just qaat. Our history tells us that Yemen invented the drink we call coffee in the eleventh century, and that Moka is named for the Red Sea port, Al Mukha,” Majid explains with pride.

Lou shakes his head and softly chuckles. “I certainly have a lot to learn about the Middle East, especially this part of Arabia.

I find it fascinating and intend to absorb all I can. I feel a real affinity for the culture and religion here. Our family immigrated to the USA from Sicily via Tunisia. I’m sure I have some Arab blood in my ancestry. It would be hard for any Sicilian not to after two hundred fifty years of rule by the North African Muslim Moors.

“Perhaps that explains your attraction,” Majid says with an even bigger smile. “It’s in your genetic makeup.” He stands.

“Come, let’s walk in the garden.”

As they stand side by side, Majid’s right-hand slides over and grasps Lou’s left hand and guides him toward the garden entrance. An uncomfortable furrow crosses Lou’s brow, yet he doesn’t balk at the un-Western handholding between two men like most foreigners would. Hell, when in Rome, do as the Romans—or rather the Arabs—do.

As he squeezes Majid’s hand, the corners of Majid’s mouth rise slightly as a small smile breaks across his face. With clasped hands, the two men walk down the steps and stop at the entrance to one of the most elaborate gardens Lou has ever seen, and certainly, what must be the most beautiful garden in Dubai. How could such an array of vegetation grow in this arid climate?

25

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Several types of palm trees line the labyrinth of walkways that zigzag through the oasis. Acacia and Ficus trees, intermixed with smaller bushes, leaf out all the way through the interior gardens.

The walls surrounding the garden are covered in yellow, red, and pink bougainvillea. Oleander, frangipani, hibiscus, jasmine, and gardenias flourish in sporadic locations. The pungent yet pleasant smell of the plants drift across the grounds.

As they walk, Majid asks, “Do you know it can take two to three years between the time oil is discovered and the actual production of the river of greenbacks it brings? Under our concession agreement with Continental Oil Company, we are responsible for improving the infrastructure needed to handle the influx of professionals, skilled workers, and peripheral businesses. We need new houses, apartments, and schools for their employees and the many oil field service and construction companies that will come here.”

Unclasping Lou’s hand Majid stops and turns to face him.

“A proper port needs to be built to handle large vessels, and our famous estuary that divides the two parts of the city, Deira and Dubai, needs to be dredged to deeper depths for large oilfield workboats to navigate—and roads and bridges built. We have one bridge across the Creek, as this inlet is called, the Maktoum Bridge, which was completed two years ago. A gift from our Ruler Shaikh Rashid’s Qatari Al Thani family.” He pauses briefly and then meets Lou’s eyes. “We need more.”

Majid looks upwards as if organizing his thoughts. “As I’ve explained to your uncle, I’ve tried the banks—British Bank of the Middle East, Iranian, Pakistani, and other British banks, even the Hong Kong and Swiss banks—but until oil is flowing, they won’t help. Too much of a political and business risk, they say.

The ruler needs funds now, a bridging loan, so to speak, to tide him over and to carry out infrastructure developments to prepare Dubai for the coming oil bonanza, and I have been tasked to find these funds.”

26

As told by Luigi Falconi to John Dragonetti

“What about the local businessmen?” Lou asks. “During my short time here, I’ve seen some affluent business operations and large villas in town, as well as new construction. There are dhows lined up and down the Creek loading and unloading goods. Can’t the businessmen help?”

Majid looks directly at his guest. “It’s not a good time for business.”

“I understand that Dubai is the most important trading port in the Arabian Gulf,” Lou says.

“Yes, you’re correct. Goods from all over the world land in Dubai and are redistributed to India, Iran, and Pakistan. Our neighbors across the Gulf have excessive import duties, so the most profitable trade with them are Swiss watches, gold pens, and the most favored, gold bars and jewelry. In tax-free Dubai, the local merchants have gifted a lot to the government in the past for turning a blind eye while they…” Majid pauses, choosing his words carefully. He looks at Lou with a big grin, then continues, “Um, hmmm, re-export, tons of gold to India and watches and electronics to Iran and Pakistan. It’s not illegal for our merchants to bring in goods from other countries and re-export them anywhere they wish. Re-export is our biggest business. As long as the US Gold standard keeps prices at thirty-five dollars per ounce, gold will remain our biggest re-export commodity. The common Indian unit of measurement is a tola. A ten-tola bar weighs three and three-quarter ounces. At the current rate, five thousand of these bars is worth over six hundred thousand US dollars on the local market. Once landed in India, its value is two point five million dollars.”

Lou nods thoughtfully. “That certainly explains the interest in export trade. Business seems pretty good to me, and profitable, so what’s the problem?”

“State-sponsored pirates.” Majid’s thick eyebrows raise.

“Our traders occasionally run into coastal naval vessels from other countries when they enter their territorial water. They stop 27

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our high-speed dhows and confiscate the cargo. This is expected, and the losses are built into overhead. But it now appears that the authorities in these countries have given their naval vessels authority to do this in international waters. Almost like the lettre de marque, a government license issued by monarchs to a private person, known as a privateer or corsair, to attack and capture vessels of a nation at war with the issuing country. In our case, Dubai is not at war with these countries and the real pirates are the bureaucrats from these various governments who turn a blind eye for a share of the profits. These naval vessels take the cargo, and after the crew take their share, the rest goes to their government. Rather than have their ship confiscated, the nakhudas or captains have been dumping their contraband overboard. They try to mark the location so they can return and retrieve the goods later, but this does not always happen. The attacks have increased ten-fold, and one exporter has lost three shipments valued at fifteen million dollars.”

“An overwhelming loss.” Lou whistles.

“Exactly, so the shippers are not exporting and are suffering from a recession.”

“The locals help as much as they can, but it’s not enough.”

Majid shrugs.

“What about your Saudi neighbors? They’ve been producing oil since nineteen-thirty-six. They must have money.”

“Yes, but Saudi’s Western partners in their state oil company ARAMCO, get eighty-five percent of the income until they recover their investment. What’s left is needed by the government to develop their country and placate the numerous members of the royal family and conservative religious subjects with allowances to keep them from stirring the pot. We’ve talked with them.” Majid stops, looks down, and quietly mutters as if talking to himself, “What they offer is like promising a piece of bread to a starving man. Not worth the loss of our dignity. We need several hundred million just to start.”

28

As told by Luigi Falconi to John Dragonetti

“Wow, that’s a lot of greenbacks. If it were ten years ago, we could have funneled it from Cuba. We know that our businesses in Vegas needs some help legitimizing funds, but how do we do it?” Lou drops his hands.

“Easy, my friend. As your uncle and I discussed, the New Orleans end of the business own some of the largest marine services and oilfield supply vessel companies, and offshore fabrication and construction facilities, as well as engineering services companies in the Gulf Coast USA. You bring all these companies to our Gulf and establish oil field service companies here. Our local banks have some of the most confidential banking rules in the world. Money in and out is a very private matter.

While the Swiss banks are capitulating to the USA regulators to reveal secret account holders, that will never happen here.

Move your cash assets and people here and reap all the billions of Petro-dollar contracts that will be tendered.”

“Tendered? That means bidding by competitors from around the world. How can you guarantee we get the contracts?”

“You’re not in the USA or Europe. This is Dubai, my friend.

Leave that to us. Loan us five hundred million dollars, and you have our promise you’ll make more money than any casino or other business you have. The returns will be a multiple of one hundred percent.” Majid pauses. “Trust me.”

For some reason, maybe his Moorish blood, Lou believes him. “Give me a couple of days to discuss this with Uncle Fabio and the others.”

“Come, enough business for now. Let me show you, my collection.” Again, Majid clutches Lou’s hand and leads him toward what appears to be a large garage with a fifteen-foot rollup aluminum door in the center and a normal-size wooden door on the side. Majid opens the small door and escorts him in.

Lou takes off his sunglasses and allows his eyes to adjust from the bright sunlight to the subdued illumination inside.

Looking around, he sees six heaps of Persian carpets, each pile 29

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a different size ranging from about five by eight feet to at least twelve by twenty-four feet. Each stack of carpets was four to five feet high. Without saying a word, he approaches the mound with the largest size carpets and begins flipping them back one by one to view. “What is this one called?” he asks his host.

“That is a Nain. Most carpets are named after the city where they were woven. Each city has unique designs and color schemes.” Stepping forward, Majid takes over the task of carpetflipper. “This one is an Ardabil. See the magnificent colors?”

Again, turning up the edge of the next treasure, he explains that it is a Tabriz. Becoming bored with his task, he reaches down and lifts the corner of a dozen rugs together, reaching one he wants. “This is an Isphani. They are my favorite because of the beautiful blue colors. The shades of blue evoke tranquility, honesty, strength, trust, and loyalty.”

“This has to be the most stunning array of woven treasures ever collected.”

Seeing Lou’s astonishment, Majid smiles. “There are two more storerooms bigger than this with many more. It is estimated to be the largest collection in the world.”

Leaving the treasure chest of knotted artistry, the two exit by a back door and walk toward an Olympic-size swimming pool surrounded by an ornate patio scattered with blue and white cushioned sun lounges and chairs.

Majid circles around the pool and enters a doorway that leads down six or seven steps into what appears to be a basement.

Entering the air-conditioned underground room, Lou looks around at the beautiful rock walls constructed of natural, rough blocks of granite. Mounted on the walls are a sailfish, a marlin, and a large sea bass or grouper. A grand teak bar with brown leather stools made from camel saddles are positioned at the front of the room. The only light emanates from a large window extending the length of the bar, about twenty feet long and five feet high, like an underwater cinema screen.

30

As told by Luigi Falconi to John Dragonetti

“Can the swimmers see us from their side?” Lou asks.

“This is one-way glass. Unless the swimmers have been inside this room, they aren’t aware they’re underwater movie stars.”

“I’ll bet you’ve seen some interesting freestyle swimming through this glass.” Lou grins.

“Unfortunately, my work here and business travels don’t allow me much leisure time to enjoy the views here, but there are always parties given here for our friends, hosted by my assistant, Iskar Tandoody. I’m told that they can be fascinating.” Majid looks at Lou. “Please feel free to use the pool, and even have parties here whenever you like. I’ll tell Iskar to always make it available to you. After all, you’re one of our friends.”

Lou nods. “Thank you.”

“What about you? You don’t seem the type to run an oilfield service company. What types of business do you like?”

“I’m really a casino man. I remember those days vividly.

Walking around the magnificent grounds and having free reign of the hotel. Every dealer and croupier knew me, the boss’s kid.

Losing Cuba really hurt the family. My mentor, Meyer Lansky, thinks we need to find a new Havana, someplace to build a new Riviera Hotel to base our headquarters outside of the States.”

“My discussions with Fabio were in relation to the oil industry,” Majid says. “But perhaps we can be of help in your personal quest. The Trucial states are changing. A few years ago, the British sent one of their civil servants, Julian Walker, to map our country into city states along tribal allegiances, as a prelude to forming a federation. The cartographer’s work has been completed, but boundaries are still just pencil lines on paper.

The tribesmen swear their allegiance to whichever Shaikh will benefit their needs the most, so borders are fluid.

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“However, the British Prime Minister and his Labor government made up their minds they no longer want to spend the time and money to police the Arabian Gulf. They intend to pull out and give the Trucial states their independence and guide them to form a Federation of city-states or Shaikhdoms.

According to my source, they want this to happen within the next five or six years.

“The British Political agents have been a pain in the ass for all of us since they decided we needed to be protected. Protect against whom? Except for a few disagreements between tribes, we were doing fine before they unilaterally decided to be our custodians and made us their so-called wards, declaring us a Protectorate in forty-seven.”

“I thought the Brits really helped you, especially during World War Two,” Lou states sarcastically, hoping to get Majid to reveal more to help him gauge the politics of the area. “Maybe they felt you needed the strength and security of forming a proper country.”

“Yes, they helped us during the war, but they needed us just as much as we needed them. We like the British businessmen and have even hired some of their civil servants who have retired from service in the Gulf. Most have learned our language and culture, and lived and worked in our world for years. But the British diplomats and political agents treat us like children and use us for their political purposes, manipulating and pitting each tribal ruler against each other. Divide and conquer has always been their style,” Majid explains.

“The Brits have been in your Gulf since the early eighteen hundreds, and I read they even bombarded your neighbor’s palace in Ras Al Khaimah in 1819. I believe they considered them as pirates.”

“Ah, you’ve been studying our history. A good businessman always knows all he can about his potential partners.” Majid smiles. “I admire that.”

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“You must remember, Mr. bin Jabir, for almost four hundred years the British class system and empire gave them a history of feeling superior. It’s been engrained in their biological makeup.

They haven’t yet accepted that the days of the empire are over.

Hell, the Mua’atamad, the British political agent in Bahrain, was reluctant to even meet me. And when we did meet, rather than greet me, he just arrogantly barked, ‘We have ten minutes.

What do you want?’”

“I understand more cultures than most, Mr. Falconi,” Majid replies, using the formal address that reflects his displeasure in receiving a history lecture from an outsider.

Sensing Majid’s annoyance and wanting to get back to what interested him most, Lou sucks in a breath. “So, are you saying the chances of building a hotel and casino complex are a nonstarter?”

“No, not at all. Your casino can still exist if established before the Federation is formed, but maybe not in Dubai. Some of the smaller locations to the North would provide a wonderful setting. We understand the geography toward the Musandam is not favorable for large oil deposits, but the sun, sea, and beaches rival Havana. Ras Al Khaimah, the Trucial State that encompasses some of the Musandam and borders Oman has only a small prospect for oil, and they need income.

“We are close to the Ruler of Ras al Khaimah.” Majid shrugs.

“Perhaps having a guaranteed income of a few million dollars a year will appeal to Shaikh Saqr.”

Lou’s face breaks into a big grin. “Saqr? Doesn’t that mean falcon in Arabic? They’re one of the most feared birds of prey.

When can I go see this Ras Al Khaimah place and meet Saqr, will we need a sweetener? Maybe something legit in the eyes of his Muslim subjects and neighbors? I believe maisiris or gambling is haram in the teachings of Islam.”

“Again, your knowledge of our world is impressive.” Jabir sits back in thought. “Many things are haram in the Koran. just 33

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as your Bible has a top ten list of no-noes for you Christians. We just do as other countries with large Muslim populations have done—only non-Muslims are admitted to the casino. And we put a non-Arabic speaking Christian at the door as security.” He smiles lightheartedly.

“Just let me see what we can do,” Jabir continues. “I pride myself on being a good Muslim. I don’t imbibe in alcohol, I pray five times a day, and I don’t gamble in Casinos, but I wouldn’t mind being a partner in one. From what your uncle has told me about you, and what I’ve seen here in our brief meetings, I think we would be good partners and friends. But yes, a sweetener, as you call it, will help to seal a deal with Ras Al Khaimah.”

“I think I’d like that. Friends and partners.”

“Something in the oil industry would be appealing to Shaikh Saqr. Let me get back to you in a few days, and I’ll be able to tell you more. In the meantime, I’ll ask my assistant, Iskar, to arrange for someone to drive you to Ras Al Khaimah just to see the area.” **** Slowly rolling through the gates, Lou looks out of the car window as Ahmet drives down the Jumairah beach road heading south. The blue water of the Arabian Gulf laps at the shoreline.

Just before the paved road ends, Ahmet turns and heads toward the Al Maktoum bridge and the Airlines Hotel.

Back at the hotel, Lou calmly strolls across the lobby toward the lounge. Built in 1961, the hotel wasn’t centrally airconditioned. With one hundred twenty percent occupancy spurred by the oil boom, their clientele demanded more comfort, especially during the one-hundred-plus degrees during summer.

Even in the pleasant winter months, the days can be warm and humid. The owner of the hotel, the Ruler, wanting to keep his foreign guests content, contracted one of the big businessmen, the Juma al Majid group, who had the agency for the USA 34

As told by Luigi Falconi to John Dragonetti

manufacturer Carrier, to install individual room air conditioning systems. Unfortunately, the common areas, such as the dining room and lounge, were still unairconditioned until the large central units and ducting could be installed.

As Lou enters the lounge, two sweaty staff stock the shelves and clean the floors.

“Sorry, sir,” one of them says in Indian-accented English.

“We don’t open for lunch until one p.m., after Dhuhr prayers.”

Lou walks over to one of the circular booths along the wall and slides in. “You’re open now.” His brusque tone intimidates the two workers.

“Yes, sir. What can I get for you?”

“A double Chivas, straight up, and leave the bottle on the table.” Lou’s body clock is on New Orleans time, and it’s two in the morning there—time for a drink. When he is too uptight to think straight, he tends to talk to himself. “What did I just do, agreeing to be partners with Majid bin Jabir in a casino? That’s family business. What will my uncle and Meyer say?” He pours another drink, and then another. Maybe he’ll get some sleep, after all. Or maybe not.

35

Chapter 3 Scouting the Terrain March 19, 1965

Friday is the Muslim day of rest, but there will be no rest for the wicked.

Lou pulls his pillows over his Chivas-induced headache. The unsynchronized harmony of several Mullahs from numerous mosques in the neighborhood reciting the same morning Fajr prayer drowns the loud hum of the single room air conditioner.

Eyes straining to adjust to the light, Lou lies in bed and listens as the chorus issues their proclamation, “Allahu Akbar, God is Great.”

“Come and pray,” Lou adds. Throwing off his light blanket he sits up just as the phone rings. He grabs the black handle.

Mr. Falconi,” resonates a baritone voice from the distant end of the line. “This is Tim Johnson. I work with Mr. bin Jabir’s assistant, Iskar Tandoody. He asked me to take you to Ras Al Khaimah today. I’ll pick you up in front of the hotel in an hour.

I’m the dark green Land Rover.”

Tim reaches over and strokes the thigh of the Indian beauty lying next to him. “Ha, ha. Can’t you just see that Yank asshole trying to figure out which Land Rover in the parking lot is intended for him?”

Lou showers, dresses, and heads to the breakfast room, scoffs down a coffee and croissant, and, as instructed, walks out the front door, where he encounters a parking lot full of dark 36

As told by Luigi Falconi to John Dragonetti

green Land Rovers, the favored British-made automobile for the desert.

Lou walks from vehicle to vehicle trying to find his ride.

Frustrated, he starts to return to the hotel when a man with long, flowing, pure white hair walks toward him. As a predator assesses the strength of his prey in preparation for an attack, Lou studies the oncoming stranger. His face is handsome—that Marlboro Man type of look. As he gets closer, Lou sees that his sunken cheeks give him a lean appearance, more like a long-distance runner. There is no beer gut, he has a full set of teeth, and he sports remarkably long hair. And with that manicure, he’s not an oilfield worker. As he gets closer, Lou sees the mesmerizing pale blue eyes that radiate puerile innocence, but with an impish sparkle.

Even as a kid on the street Lou had an innate quality of being able to judge a person’s character just by studying their physical attributes—observing the way they stand, the way they look, their behavior and movements, and the way they dress. His Uncle Fabio embraced the old country superstitions and beliefs in the special gifts that God gave some of his chosen people.

When Lou’s mother was unable to produce enough milk to suckle her son, Uncle Fabio hired a Bourbon Street clairvoyant he frequently consulted to be Lou’s wet nurse. Uncle Fabio and the family believed she was the source of the boy’s preternatural gift.

As the wild-haired lion-man slowly moves closer, Lou studies the designer quality, cream-colored shirt unbuttoned to his waist exposing a sweaty sunken chest and some unruly body hair. He’s sure the shirt is open to better deal with the warm climate, but the thick gold chain around his neck supporting several pendants tells him this man is different, not a common businessman or skilled craftsman, but someone who lives by his wits.

Focusing on the stylish pleated pants held up by a belt 37

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made of brilliant black skin from some unfortunate reptile, he recognizes the upmarket name, Pierre Cardin, on the buckle.

The lion’s casual loafers are covered in dust, but Lou knows expensive Italian Bruno Magli shoes when he sees them. The thin delicate soles aren’t very practical in a city where most of the roads were still dirt tracks, but they were fashionable. “This guy has class when it comes to clothes—an Arabian Armani shopper—no discount shopping for him.”

As he approaches Lou, the man smiles. “Mr. Falconi, I’m Tim Johnson, your host and guide for today.”

Continuing his appraisal, Lou observes his long white locks that reach well past the collar of his shirt, giving him the appearance of one of those hippies protesting the Vietnam War back in the States. The hair on this aged flower child is a bit sweaty and keeps falling into his eyes, landing on the bridge of his nose. Using his right-hand, Tim reaches for his drooping locks, revealing a large gold and diamond ring on his pinky, and rakes the hair back in line with the rest of his white fleece.

His long, thin appendages remind Lou of the type of fingers he thought a piano player would have.

Determining that the man isn’t a threat, Lou steps in front of him and offers a friendly hand of greeting. As Tim stretches his right hand toward him, his cuff pulls away from his wrist, revealing a large gold Rolex. Judging from its flash and sparkle, Lou couldn’t help but suspect its bezel had to be surrounded with diamonds.

“Pleased to meet you Mr. Falconi,” Tim cordially remarks.

Grasping the hand firmly and with a warm smile, Lou replies, “My pleasure. Just call me Lou. Your accent tells me you’re a fellow American.”

“California born and reared.” Impishly trying to cover his personal prank, he continues, “Sorry about the green Land Rover confusion. I forget that most of the vehicles here are that model and color, except for the sand-colored ones the British military 38

As told by Luigi Falconi to John Dragonetti

and government officials drive. Not very creative, these Brits.

Kinda like the hundreds of big black taxis they have in London, all look the same.”

Tim gives a shrill whistle and their green Rover with a young Indian at the wheel zips towards them, stopping abruptly just before running over Lou’s foot.

The driver exits and runs to Lou. “So sorry, sahib,” he says apologetically, using the Indian term meaning “master” usually reserved when addressing or speaking to an important European or someone of high rank in colonial India.

“This here is Chandran. Not much of a driver, but a good man,” Tim says with his big smile. “You might want to shed that coat and tie. It’s gonna be a long, dusty ride.”

Chandran takes Lou’s coat and tie and carefully lays them across one side of the back seat, and then runs around to open the front passenger door for Tim. “You sit in front, Lou. You can see better and can hold on tighter when we hit some of those rough spots in the road. I’ll sit in back. If you see a camel walking toward the road, tuck your head down between your legs and kiss your ass goodbye.” Tim slaps his hands together and breaks out with a loud “Haw, haw, haw.”

“The Dubai-Ras Al Khaimah (RAK) Road, as it’s called is notorious for cars hitting camels,” Tim explains. “The momentum on contact collapses the dromedaries’ long thin legs allowing their heavy body to slide across the hood and through the windscreen. Lots of roaming camels on this road.”

Turning toward Tim, in the rear seat, Lou smiles and without hesitation he starts to enter the car, but before he can fully close his door, Chandran speeds off like a race car driver.

“Take us down on the Creek. Iskar wants me to show Mr. Falconi the main part of town—the dhows loading and unloading and the spice and gold souks.”

39

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Overhearing the conversation, Lou asks, “What’s a souk?”

“It’s a bazaar or market. The Arabs call it a souk,” Tim explains. “Dubai has a souk for almost everything; vegetables, fish, fabrics, even gold and silver.”

Arriving at the Maktoum Bridge end of the Creek, Chandran drives toward the mouth of the inlet and pulls to a stop along the water side of the road, out of the traffic flow. Across the road was a deep excavation, the site of a new residential building or hotel that will eventually get built.

Lou watches as a fleet of gaily painted small craft navigate through the water traffic.

“Those are water taxis called Abra’s,” Tim explains, noticing Lou’s interest. “They carry shoppers and businessmen between the Deira and Dubai sides of the Creek for the princely price of half a riyal, about ten US cents. Some are motorized, but most are oar powered, much like a gondola, the traditional narrow and long Venetian rowing boat in Venice. Before the Maktoum Bridge was built it was easier to park your car and go across on the Abra, rather than drive around the end of the Khor.”

“Now you’ve confused me,” Lou blurts. “What’s the difference between the Creek and a Khor?”

“The natural tidal inlet from the sea is called a Khor in Arabic but for some fuckin’ reason it became known as the Creek. I think it had something to do with the Texas and Oklahoma oil workers who came in the late fifties and early sixties and referred to it in their slow drawl as the ‘Crik,’ That’s what they already called it when I arrived on the first drilling barge in sixty-two. Now it’s being gentrified into ‘Creek’.”

Seeing his guest’s interest, Tim carries on, “It’s a tidal basin snaking about six miles through the heart of the city.” He paused to point at one of the large boats docked along the side. “The commercial areas of the city were originally located close to the mouth and midway up the inlet where the water was deep enough to allow those boats, called dhows, to dock during high 40

As told by Luigi Falconi to John Dragonetti

tide and unload goods for transshipment overland. It needs to be dredged soon. The silting limits the number of big dhows that can berth alongside the shore walls.”

Lou looks toward the Maktoum Bridge. “What’s on the other side of the bridge?”

“Past the bridge, the water spreads out into a shallow brackish lake they call Ras Al Khor, or Head of the Creek, which has become a rest and feed stop for flocks of migratory birds as they travel north or south. On the east side by the bridge are several dilapidated warehouses with millions of dollars’ worth of goods, equipment, and other export items. The crackdown by the governments of Iran, India, and other countries on taking these goods has really hurt the traders here.”

Looking at the empty land and old warehouses, Lou comments, “You know, they could dredge up a couple miles and create some great commercial land for the oil service companies, but those warehouses will have to go.”

“We’ll take a ride that way on our way to Ras Al Khaimah.

Let’s walk up toward the old souk in the Bahama quarter first,” Tim suggests.

As they stroll along the moored dhows, Lou is fascinated by the loading and unloading of goods and stops to watch as live sheep, crates of chickens, and bundles of wrapped goods are loaded on the deck. What the crew can’t fit in the hold is balanced on the deck, keeping the wooden boat on an even keel.

On the next dhow, a small truck is driven across heavy planks and maneuvered on deck in a careful balancing act.

Lou turns to Tim. “What’s that half-circle shaped appendage on the back of the boats?”

“It’s called a cat box. It’s the ship’s head, like an outhouse. It has a hole cut in the floor where you piss and crap. Works good in the high seas, but when docked in the Creek, the shit drops into the water below, so it’s only flushed a couple of times a day 41

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when the daily tides bring in fresh water and carries away the refuse.”

Tim motions for Lou to cross the road and leads him into a maze of narrow alleyways with an array of shops clustered along each side. Along the stone pathways, shopkeepers stand in their doorways, verbally encouraging foreigners to look at their goods.

They continue to walk past shops selling sheesha’s, which are the waterpipes known as hookas or hubbly bubbly’s, Arab coffee pots, even modern small electronics and traditional Arab weaponry.

Tim stops as Lou looks at a curved knife in a decorative sheath. “That’s a traditional dagger called a khanjar that most Omani men and some Ras Al Khaimah tribesmen wear on their waist. It is given to a young man as a rite of passage when he comes of age.”

Walking on, they pass open-fronted stores with clothes, shoes, and pots and pans. Some pots are large enough to hold an entire sheep. Passing the tea stalls, Lou eyes trays laden with Persian and Indian sweets with colorful signs offering refreshing fresh fruit drinks, Arabic coffee, or tea. Walking by patrons who are sitting in front enjoying their drinks and pastry, he closes his eyes and inhales the sweet smell of the spiced tobacco smoke coming from their hubbly bubbly.

“Watch it,” Tim said as he pulls Lou from the path of a wooden handcart mounted on two automobile wheels and with two long handles like a rickshaw, powered by one human beast of burden. The human beast has a long strap across his forehead with each end connected to one of the handles, allowing for more pulling power.

“The lanes here are too narrow for a truck to pass, so to get the goods to the shops, they unload them from the truck and convey them on these carts through the narrow alleys to the shops. It’s exhausting work, but it’s a job,” Tim shrugs.

42

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As they continue their tour, the cadence of the Muezzin’s voice emanates from the top of the high-towered minaret attached to the mosque as he calls the faithful to noon prayers.

“We need to get our ass moving or we’ll be stuck in Ras Al Khaimah for the night,” Tim says.

The trio returns to their Land Rover, and Chandran drives toward the Maktoum Bridge. Just before turning off to the road to Sharjah, Tim instructs Chandran to continue straight on the dirt track leading to the underside of the bridge.

“Stop here.” Tim opens his window and instructs Lou to do the same.

“Remember those cat boxes on the dhows?” Tim asks.

“Well, this sandy area is just one big kitty litter box.” He points to several laborers squatting down next to a big sign, their baggy pants spread out to cover their dignity while they use the Creek as a big toilet. “Haw haw,” Tim bellows, enjoying his scatological humor as he points to the sign near the water: NO URINATION OR DEFECATION IN THE CREEK, it read.

“I could never understand why the signs are in English, Arabic, and Urdu. Most of these workers are illiterate and don’t speak English or Arabic—just their tribal versions of Hindi, Farsi, or Urdu.”

“Ya gotta crap, ya gotta crap. It’s an international biological urge,” Lou quips.

“Hubba, hubba! Let’s move.” Tim nods to Chandran.

Leaving the last tarmac road near the clock tower, they proceed on a solid track toward Sharjah. As long as the mud or sandflats, known as sabkha, are dry and the tides are out, the road is solid but dusty. But soon, softer sand, blown by the wind, starts to cover the hard mud, requiring Chandran to pick up speed and almost jump over the sandy waves.

Lou and Tim tightly grab the handholds and anything else they can to keep from bouncing off their seats.

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Chandran approaches a fork in the track and follows the more inland route.

“Why are you going this way?” Tim shouts from the back seat. “It will take longer.”

“It’s a full moon tonight, and there will be high tides. The shorter route will flood,” Chandran explains as he continues driving.

A few miles further, Chandran slows and points toward the sea. “Look, boss, a car is stuck in the mud. When the owner returns with help in the morning, he won’t find it. Once that track is wet, it’s like quicksand and will swallow that car like a python.”

Thirty minutes later they reach the Black Cat Construction Company Road sign just outside the Sharjah airport, where the Royal Air Force has had a base since WWII. “Lunch time,” Chandran announces as he turns into the drive of the old BOAC Rest House. Pulling in front of the small, onestory hotel, Chandran turns to Lou. “This was originally built by the British Overseas Aviation Corporation in the thirties as an overnight stop for their airline staff and passengers on western Gulf routes to India. After the war, a new company took it over.

For a few years, it was the only hotel in the Trucial States. Food’s still good.”

“Where’s the head?” Lou asks as he enters the hotel.

“Just follow that strong urine smell,” Tim wittingly replies.

After relieving their strained bladders, they head for the dining room and a spicy curry lunch, a traditional Friday favorite.

Seeing Tim and Chandran add more hot green chili peppers, Lou says, “Let’s hope our stomachs hold until Ras Al Khaimah.

How much further?”

“Another ninety minutes. Except for a few spots, the road will be good.” Tim nods, his striking white hair bouncing. “They’ve finally agreed to build a new asphalt road. It was going to be just a rolled, oiled, sabkha road, but the Saudi government agreed 44

As told by Luigi Falconi to John Dragonetti

to pay for a tarmac-surfaced road between Sharjah and Ras Al Khaimah, and work has started on it. The Dubai-Sharjah part of the road is being built by the big Saudi construction company, Bin Ladin, and paid for by the Trucial States with their foreign development funds.”

Good timing on the new roads. Lou rubs his chin. People can’t gamble if it’s too difficult to get to the casino. Now how about a high-speed boat service from Dubai and Abu Dhabi?

Back on the road, they skirt around the town of Sharjah and proceed on their journey, navigating the sandy road to join the main dirt track, which is already being transformed into a road.

Running parallel to the shoreline but inland enough to avoid most high tides, grading and base rock has been laid, making the initial part of their drive almost a pleasure. After several miles, the construction ends and the road transforms back into a hard sabkha track, at times broken by soft, sandy ruts.

Chandran has no problem following the bumpy road, and after an hour, sees the outlines of the high dunes, which are their last barrier before entering the main road into the town of Ras Al Khaimah. On the horizon behind the dunes, they see the profile of the Hajar Mountains that extend from Ras Al Khaimah through the Musandam Peninsula and along the Gulf of Oman to Muscat. As the mountains come closer, so do the dunes, and the tracks become ruts filled with soft sand, necessitating increasing speed. Climbing the first in the series of sandbanks, the Land Rover fares well and easily makes the inclines.

Both Tim and Lou, slumped in their seats napping off their curry lunch, are awakened by the stopping Rover. At the top of the last small dune Chandran exits the car and looks across the horizon.

“What’s he doing?” Lou asks his back seat companion.

“He’s trying to judge the best route to navigate over the final and largest dune. See that cloud on the right that looks like a large plume of rolling smoke moving across the skyline. It 45

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isn’t smoke, but a wall of sand. A northwesterly wind, called a Shamal, is heading toward the dune. Chandran is trying to determine the best way to move quickly.”

“Gentlemen” Chandran says, “I need your help. We don’t have much time.”

With a jerk, Tim jumps up. “What’s the problem?”

“We need to get ahead of that sandstorm heading our way, or we’ll be sleeping here tonight.” He points toward the sand-filled cloud. “Quick, help me let some air out of the tires. A softer tire has a wider footprint, giving more area on the bottom of the wheel and allowing easier and faster movement. A hard tire can get stuck easily,” he explains. “Each of you take a tire and let out enough air for the tire to partially flatten, but not too much.”

After quickly doing as instructed, they re-enter the vehicle and Chandran advises them to hold tight as he grabs the wheel.

His fingers whiten from his clenched grip as he hits the gas and follows what tracks he can see heading down the sand hill. His speed increases. To his left, the windy wall of blowing sand heads toward them. Gaining more speed, he picks up momentum and guns the Rover, prodding it up and down a series of inclines.

For another fifteen minutes, he continually shifts gears from low to high, climbing and then descending a series of small sand hills, circumventing some of them to keep his bearing. Finally, the last steep slope of the enormous sand barrier waits straight ahead.

Lou holds on as the Rover snakes up, down, and around, frequently seeming on the brink of flipping on its side.

At the base of the sand mountain, Chandran guns the engine, gaining even more speed and momentum as he attacks the dune and starts the climb, reaching the crest just as light sand begins to cover the front windscreen.

Looking out the rear window, Lou sees the sandstorm gaining on them. “Wow, look at that sand blowing behind us. Great job.”

In the back seat, Tim is sound asleep.

46

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After a brief pause, Chandran follows light tracks to where they join the main road leading to town. As quickly as their route transitioned into a sea of sand mountains, it now turns into a solid stone-covered track, and, soon after, a proper macadam road that leads to the town of Ras Al Khaimah.

With a yawn, Tim straightens up in his seat and stretches his arms. Looking around to find his bearings, he then glances at his gold watch and announces, “Almost three. Looks like it’ll be an overnighter. By mid-morning tomorrow, road graders will have the sand cleared and the route to Sharjah will be easily passable again.”

Driving along the road to town, Tim points out one of the old Portuguese watch towers. “RAK,” he says, using the acronym for Ras Al Khaimah, “has a big history with Portuguese forts and look-out towers all along the coast. They were built in the sixteen hundreds to protect their trade routes to the East. One of the best is the Dhayah Fort, which is north toward an area called Shams, near the Omani border in the Musandam.”

As they drive down the main street through town, commercial buildings with a few two- or three-story ones rise above the flat lines of the city.

“With just a few hours of daylight left, we should do a tour of the town so we can sleep in tomorrow morning,” Tim says.

“Let’s head to the Hotel Ras Al Khaimah first for a bathroom break and to check-in.”

“We don’t have reservations. Are you sure we can get rooms?” Lou asks.

“Don’t need reservations. Majid and the RAK Ruler own the place,” Tim responds. “It’s nothing fancy, but it’s the best hotel in town for foreigners. Majid’s got plans for a new five-star hotel to be built soon. It will be the only luxury resort between here and Dubai.”

Casino. Lou smiles. While Tim and Lou check in and make a pit stop at the hotel, Chandran leaves to fill the Land Rover with 47

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petrol and top off the tire pressure for their return trip to Dubai.

The three meet in the lobby and return to their car for a tour of the shaikhdom.

“I’m actually glad we’re staying,” Lou says as he climbs into the green machine. “I see you can get a massage at the hotel. Just what I need after that drive. That, and a nice dinner and a glass of wine will do wonders for this body.”

“Don’t think it will be some sweet little Thai girl,” Tim says. “Single foreign women can’t get in the country for work, especially as a masseuse. It will be some big Indian or Pakistani dude who learned the trade working on his mates on some cargo ship that came through here.” With his characteristic “Haw, haw” Tim adds, “Don’t let him give you a ‘happy ending’.”

As they drive, Tim explains that Ras Al Khaimah has two main areas—Old Town and Nakheel, separated by a creek, much like Dubai—and points out the sites he knows.

“Slow down and pull up in front of that old fort,” he orders Chandran. The large square fort has a flag flying from the top of a tall rectangular watchtower. “The Ruler Shaikh Saqr and his family lived here until last year. He now has a nice palace in the Mamoura area closer to the sea. They’re converting this place to a police station and prison.”

Chandran stops in front of large wooden gates. No security is visible, so Lou decides to get out to examine the old structure.

“It looks like the bricks of the walls are made of coral.”

Tim nods. “The fossil building material was cut from coral.

It’s lightweight and provides good insulation, keeping the building cool in the summer and warm in the winter. Most older buildings used it.”

Walking around the corner, Lou spots another strangelooking turret. “What’s that tower for?”

“It’s a wind tower. The open sides catch wind from any direction and funnel it down into the living quarters, keeping the 48

As told by Luigi Falconi to John Dragonetti

rooms cool in the summer. They’re called a Barajeel in Arabic, but they are architecturally Persian in origin.” **** Continuing their drive around the town, Tim appears to enjoy his role as tour guide. “The town’s geography is much like Dubai’s with a creek separating two parts of the town, but smaller and shallower. The Al Qassimi tribe here and in Sharjah are related. The RAK Ruler, Shaikh Saqr bin Mohammed Al Qassimi, and the Sharjah Ruler, Shaikh Khalid bin Mohammed Al Qassimi are tribal cousins. At one time they were just one tribal state but split up—a family spat, I guess.”

Tim shrugs. “These people were basically seafaring people, traders, fishermen, and, according to the Brits, pirates. Hell, the British navy even bombarded the RAK fort in eighteen-nineteen, and they still control their politics today.”

“I’m impressed with your knowledge of the Trucial States,” Lou says. “You obviously spent a lot of time studying it.”

“Shit, no.” Tim tosses his snow-white hair over his shoulder.

“I only study seismic lines and oil drilling logs. I just listen and learn from everyone else. In my business, knowledge is power.

You never know when it will come in handy.” He smiles at Lou, who understands exactly what he means.

“In a few years, these people will be legitimate international businessmen with oil up their butts and oil dollars in their pockets. The Brits are already kissin’ their oily asses. I want to make sure I help them—and make my millions too,” Tim concludes. “Chandran, back to the hotel.”

Chandran pulls up to the front door of the hotel, allowing Tim and Lou to exit, and then drives away.

“Where’s your driver headed?”

“He’s off to see friends and bunk with them tonight. Says he’s not comfortable in a hotel. Let’s meet at seven-thirty for dinner.”

49

Chapter 4 A Royal Salute Friday evening March 19, 1965

Lou meets Tim in the lobby. “Where’s the bar?”

“No bar in the hotel, but alcohol is available with meals.”

Tim grins his face-stretching grin, turning his face into a series of burrows. “How was your massage? Did you get the ‘happy ending’?”

“Hell, no. It was a masseur, not a masseuse. That guy was bigger than a sumo wrestler.”

“Yeah, I warned you. No woman, not even a non-Muslim, is allowed to touch a naked man.” Tim grunts. “Oil money will change that someday.”

They enter the dimly lit room. A familiar face waves to Tim from across the room. “Tim-Tim, Tim-Tim, my friend, come and see me,” Shaikh Hamed calls. Hamed is the second son of the Ruler of Ras Al Khaimah, Shaikh Saqr, from his second wife.

Lou follows his guide as he walks toward the three men in local dress seated in a curved booth in the far corner of the dining area. Their location, in a shadowy, obscure area, and the high back of their half-moon bench give them privacy from the few other diners.

Tim and Lou stand in front of the table facing the threesome.

Lou scans the men and the table, casting his eyes on a nearly empty bottle of twenty-one-year-old Chivas Royal Salute. Next to it is a full bottle. Damn, a bottle that size in the Big Easy is 50

As told by Luigi Falconi to John Dragonetti

a hundred dollars. I wonder what it must cost here where it’s forbidden fruit for Muslims.

While Lou does his normal danger assessment of the men and the room, Tim reaches across the table and shakes hands with the three locals. “Gentlemen, let me introduce you to our guest from New Orleans, Lou Falconi.”

Hamad’s eyes give a brief glit as if recognizing the name.

“Ahlan, welcome to our humble town. Min fadlik, please join us,” he greets in perfect idiomatic English as if he were a member of the British royal family.

Hamad’s two companions slide out of their seats and grab two chairs from the nearest empty table, positioning them on the aisle side of the table, facing the Shaikh.

Lou has seen this type of invitation behavior before when one of the more senior family members of the NOLA family or the “Don” himself, requested—or ordered—Lou or his uncles or brothers to sit at their table. As they take the offered seats, he feels uncomfortable and exposed. Never sit with your back to the door. Always have the wall behind you. His father drilled that lesson into him since he was a child.

“Tim-Tim, where is Snowy?” the shaikh asks as he looks around for a dog.

Seeing the puzzled look on Lou’s face, Tim explains, “You’re probably not familiar with the French cartoon character Tintin.

He has a big following in Europe. The first time I met Shaikh Hamed I had my dog with me, a white poodle named Snowy, the same name as Tintin’s cartoon dog companion.”

Shaikh Hamed smiles. “Association. It was my way of remembering Tim’s name when we first met, and it seems to have stuck. A term of endearment for my friend.”

Damn. That word again. Lots of ‘friends’ in this place.

One of Hamed’s two associates summons a waiter and orders glasses and ice for the two guests. When the waiter returns, he 51

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is again instructed, this time in his Hindi language, to fill the glasses.

The banter between the five men continues for an hour, enough time to almost empty the second bottle, when Hamed announces it is time to eat.

Hearing footsteps behind him, Lou quickly turns and then relaxes once he sees a retinue of servers with trays of food approaching.

Silence ensues as their table is set and the food placed on nearby service tables.

Arranged on the two side tables is a colorful and mouthwatering array of traditional Arab foods recognized by Lou and most Westerners: char-grilled eggplant called baba ghanoush; hummus, a purée of chickpeas; abenah, a thick creamy cheese; and tabbouleh, a salad of burghul, tomato, mint, and parsley; and, of course, the Arabic or pita bread used to dip into the foods in which forks are not required. The waiters place two or three of each of these dishes on the dining table.

“You seem familiar with much of our cuisine,” the Shaikh observes, addressing Lou. “Yes, these are favorites of mine, along with the Southern Italian dishes I was raised on. I pride myself on being somewhat of a food snob and find gastronomy fascinating. Do you know the Mediterranean kitchen reaches from the Levant through Turkey, Greece, and Italy. Eventually, it made its way to Egypt, Morocco, and into Sicily during the Moorish periods. It appears that we have a common heritage when it comes to the origin of similar types of food. I’m not sure I know what all the colorful items on the service table are, though.”

Hamed calls the waiter over and points to the dishes remaining to be served. “Please explain to our guest what each of those dishes are.”

“Of course, sahib,” he replies. Walking toward the display, he stands behind the serving table, holds his left arm behind 52

As told by Luigi Falconi to John Dragonetti

his back, and, with his right, he points to each plate. “This is sambusek, triangular pies filled with meat, cheese, or spinach,” he explains in Indian-accented English. “These small, deep-fried patties made of spiced ground chickpeas are falafel.” Moving around the table, he takes a pair of tongs from a tray and lifts a small stuffed pastry. “This one is called fatayer. It is filled with spinach, meat, or cheese.”

Pointing to some green cylinder shapes, Lou asks, “And what are these?”

“Those are stuffed vine leaves, a Middle Eastern specialty.”

Hamed grunts. “They are called warak enab in Arabic. And that last one is kibbeh, little nuggets of ground lamb and spices, much like your Italian meatballs.”

Surrounding the arrangement was a plethora of fresh whole cucumbers, tomatoes, endive, radishes, onions, and other raw vegetables, as well as a bowl of chopped salad of toasted croutons, cucumbers, tomatoes, and mint.

“Ah, I’ve had that before. Fattoush, right?”

Staring at Lou with a blank smile, the waiter bobs his head back and forth in a jumble between a “yes” and a “no” and a “duh” like one of those dolls you see in the rear window of automobiles. “Yes, yes, sahib, you are very correct.”

After setting more food on the main table, the waiters pour each diner a glass of fresh laban, a tangy-tasting sour milk drink.

Tim lifts the non-alcoholic drink and proposes a toast. “To the Ruler, Shaikh Saqr, may he have a long, healthy, and prosperous life.” Sipping the white liquid, he places the glass of laban on the table and picks up the glass of Royal Salute.

Following Tim’s example, Lou lifts the glass with the amber nectar. “To our host, Shaikh Hamed. Someday may a whiskey be created by the Chivas Brothers distillery in Scotland, commemorating another Royal coronation, this one in your honor,” referring to the distillery’s tribute to Queen Elizabeth II on the day of her coronation.

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With a beaming broad smile, Hamed commands in Arabic and English, “Ta’akul, please eat.”

“Mr. Falconi, one thing about an Arabic meal, it should not be rushed. Each dish is to be savored. Taking your time also allows some digestion of each course before you go on with the next. We usually eat with our hands,” the shaikh explains, “but if you like, we can use Western utensils.”

“No,” Lou says, “we’re visitors and guests in your country.

We’ll eat like our host.” Carefully watching the three locals and Tim, who is almost a local, use only their right hand for grabbing and dipping, Lou follows suit.

After an hour of tasting everything on the table and sipping a milky-looking drink called Arak, an anise-flavored alcoholic drink mixed with water, Lou is stuffed and ready to call it a night.

Just as he is giving Tim the internationally recognized eyeroll meaning “let’s go,” the waiters bring out a massive copper tray on which sits the traditional ouzi, a whole lamb baked over rice so the rice absorbs the juice of the meat.

After clearing the table of what Lou now realizes were just starters, two waiters carry the large platter and set it down with the head of the sheep facing Lou. Staring at it, eyeball to eyeball, he examines the sunken cooked head of the slain sheep.

Hamed stands so he can more easily grab chunks of meat and distribute them to his guests. “Excuse me for having to reach like this. Usually such a feast is served while sitting on carpets in the desert or on the floor of our home dining room with the diners circling the lamb so they can easily grab their favorite pieces of meat and handfuls of rice. We didn’t realize we would have honored guests this evening or we could have been better prepared.”

Grabbing a chunk of juice-dripping meat, Hamed continues, “Our Western friends have given a meal like this the term ‘goat grab,’ even though it’s usually lamb that is served. However, on special occasions, goat and even camel are offered.”

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Tim smiles across at Lou, knowing what is to come next.

Reaching toward Lou, the royal server places a chunk of meat on his plate. Again, he reaches toward the cooked beast and puts his right hand on the top of the shriveled head. Using his thumb, he skillfully digs out one of the sheep’s eyes and plops the staring orb on Lou’s plate.

“As our guest,” he explains, “you get the most precious and tasty parts of the beast. Please, now grab some rice for your plate.”

Hesitantly, Lou lifts his left hand. Just before it reaches the tabletop, Tim grabs it and pulls it back toward the owner’s lap. He reaches over and puts his hand on Lou’s right hand and gently lifts it. Getting the message, Lou continues a right-hand reach and cups several handfuls of rice for his plate.

Once he is done, his remaining tablemates reach simultaneously and strip pieces of savory flesh from the lamb.

Before Hamed begins eating, he watches Lou use his index finger to roll the sheep eyeball, on the plate in front of him as if he were playing finger soccer.

“Come on, put the ball in your mouth so the rest of us can start eating,” Tim prompts gleefully. “It’s like sucking oysters from the shell and feels the same slimy way. You N’awlins folks are into that.”

Hesitantly, Lou picks up the ball, pops it into his mouth, and swallows, to the smiling approval of the Arab host.

Seeing that Lou was having a difficult time eating rice with his hand, Tim gives him a nudge. “Watch me,” he says as he grabs a handful of rice. “Squash it into a ball and then flick it into your mouth with your thumb, like shooting marbles. It takes a bit of practice to get the hang of it, but after a few times, it becomes natural.”

After twenty minutes, the waiters reappear with hand towels and bowls of water with slices of lemon floating in them.

Distributing the finger bowls and cloths, the attendants stand by 55

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while each diner cleans his hands, and then they collect the used towel and disappear.

Hamed addresses Lou, “I understand you’re looking at business opportunities in our Trucial States.” Seeing the surprised look on Lou’s face, Hamed continues, “The Bedouin telegraph is the best means of communication in our world. Not too many secrets can be kept here,” he says with a smile.

“Yes, Shaikh, the oil and gas services industry seems to be growing. We think it’s a good time to expand our Gulf of Mexico operations, and the Arabian Gulf appears to be the next new petroleum frontier.”

“Please don’t forget us. We understand we don’t have the potential of Kuwait, Saudi, or Abu Dhabi, or even Dubai, but there is oil and gas here. Isn’t that right, Tim?” Tim’s only response is a smile.

“The big companies ignore us so we need to do whatever we can to appeal to the smaller size independents. There are a lot of small risk-taking companies, as well as oil and gas entrepreneurs in the USA Gulf coast who have done well. Bring them to us.”

With that, Shaikh Hamed bin Saqr Al Qassimi stands, twirls his bisht over his shoulders, bids Tim and Lou a “Ma’salama,” and walks away, followed by his retainers. **** The two men sit silently as the table is cleared by the waiters, leaving only the Chivas container with a small quantity of amber liquid.

Lou looks at Tim. “Tell me what’s with the right-hand-only deal when we were eating?”

Tim smiles. “Not a lot of Charmin in the desert and water is scarce, so the left hand is reserved for the sanitary stuff.”

Lou let this information sink in, then shrugs. “Makes sense to me. Let’s not let this Chivas go to waste,” 56

As told by Luigi Falconi to John Dragonetti

As Lou starts to pour into Tim’s glass, a long-fingered hand quickly reaches out and covers the top of his glass.

“You’re not finished, are you?” Lou asks.

“Never started.” Tim sits silently, then finally replies, “You’re not as observant as I thought. You spend so much time looking for bad guys that you don’t pay attention to the good ones. I don’t drink alcohol. You didn’t see me drink during dinner or during that toast—I only touched the rim of the glass to my lips.

Dry for five years now. Sometime I’ll tell you about my drinking days.” Tim stands and moves over to the couch side of the booth making himself comfortable.

“What brought you out here?” Lou asks as he sips his scotch.

Tim leans his head back and rests his neck on the back of the padded booth. He stares at the ceiling in deep thought. Jumping back into a more formal sitting position, he lifts his jewel-laden watch and glances at the dial. As if deciding he has more time to spend, he clears his throat. “A marriage break-up, an alcoholinduced lifestyle, and an opportunity. When I worked on rigs off the Santa Barbara coast, I used to stand on the platforms at night looking at the city lights—especially the million-dollar houses on the hillside—and decided I wanted one of them. I knew I wasn’t gonna get one as a rig worker. The last new oil frontier was the Middle East, so after the divorce, I swore off booze and women—okay, I didn’t really give up women—and headed here. I started working on seismic boats based in Kuwait and traveling up and down the Arabian Gulf. I learned Dubai was really booming, so I took a job as a tool pusher on the first drilling rig that came in here. I already know what areas could be prospective for oil from working on the seismic boats. I made copies of some of the potential fields from Dubai to RAK that were still open for concessions. Just in case.”

“I didn’t peg you as an oil worker, you just don’t fit the profile.”

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“Well, profile this.” Tim slides out of the booth and stands, puts his left arm up, right arm held out and curled at waist level, and begins a sham cha cha, moving about the empty dining room floor, smooth, graceful, and funny. He stops, sits, and continues.

“Arthur Murray dance instructor before the oil patch. Fuck, I was the most sought-after dance instructor in Hollywood. I had more requests for my services than ol’ Arthur Murray himself, and it didn’t make him too fond of me. Man, I could dance—still can.”

“I could see from your demonstration that you still have the moves. Were you what they call a gigolo?”

“Gigolo? Naw, I had class. I only slept with the ones who recognized my talent and ability and compensated me commensurately. I was like a therapist. I helped them—for a short while, at least.”

Lou smiles at Tim’s antics and his story. “Okay, now you’re in the Gulf working, with an eye on Dubai. How did you get in with Majid bin Jabir? From what I understand, he’s the most important person in Dubai and maybe the entire Gulf.”

“Working on boats in the Gulf I learned where all the surplus oil equipment was stored. Some abandoned, some forgotten, some just considered junk. Dubai was gonna need some of it soon, so with what savings I had, I opened a used oilfield equipment and supply company.

“Dubai—and most Gulf countries—require that a foreigner have a fifty-one percent business partner. The Ruler was my first choice, but I was too small a pea in the pod for him to even consider me. So, I did my homework. Remember what I told you about knowledge. I studied every person in Dubai who had wastah.

“Majid had the most, but he was too big for me. My Indian girlfriend is friends with the sister of Majid’s Indian secretary, Iskar Tandoody. The best way to get to the boss is through their secretary, right?”

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“What’s wastah?” Lou asks.

“It’s anArabic word that means influence, clout, or favoritism, who you know to get things done. It could be as small as getting your driver’s license. You never waste time in line at the police station like the common man; you’re guided to a comfortable office and drink tea until it’s delivered to you. If you happen to be stopped by the police on the way home after a few too many drinks and taken to the station, you just call your agent, and he makes a call. No telling who he talks to, but within an hour you are snug in your bed. These are the real benefits to the man on the ground.”

“Of course.” Lou nods. “We had the same thing in Cuba, called blat. A good agent was worth his weight in gold, especially with President Batista’s greedy cronies. The lobbying system in the USA is basically using wastah to get what you want from Congress. Hell, the Arab system of paying a commission to someone with influence is not much different—and probably less corrupt—than the lobbyists in the USA.” He takes a quick drink. “What about big contracts and oil concessions?”

“On the big deals, wastah might cost you ten percent of your contract value, so you just add it to the bid cost. If your man got you the contract, it’s worth the ten percent, and that cost is passed on to the company who pays your bill.” He grins that huge, captivating grin of his. “A good agent can even find out what your competitor’s bid price was so you can come in lower.

“But everything has a price. Majid’s was high. He believes in trickle-up and trickle-down economics and makes sure all of those involved are rewarded, from the lowest clerk to the managers at the top. Even the people who lose the bid. And, most of all, the royal families.”

“How did you finally hook up with Iskar?”

“Lou, I’ve said too much and it’s almost midnight. The waiters are standing by the door so they can go to bed. Let’s move. We’ll meet for breakfast at eight-thirty so we can get an early start to Dubai.”

59

Chapter 5 The Road not Taken Saturday March 20, 1965

Lou sits at a corner table drinking coffee and reading the Reuters Bulletin, mimeographed sheets of news from the Reuters’ system, compiled and printed as a substitute for a real local newspaper, which doesn’t yet exist in the Trucial Shaikhdoms.

“Shu Akhbar?” Tim says as he approaches. “What’s the news?” he repeats in English.

Looking up, Lou puts down the paper. “Lots of shit happening. The Vietnam War is turning to crap and more body bags are coming home; the Civil Rights movement is picking up momentum with leaders like Martin Luther King; and Senator Bobby Kennedy is still after what he calls, ‘Organized Crime’ in America. Someone needs to take him out like they did his brother. Other than that, things are good.”

Tim continues to stand.

“No breakfast for you, Tim?” “Not after that dinner. Chandran’s waiting. Grab your stuff and let’s get on the road.” **** The blue winter sky and cool weather make it a good day for a drive. The winds of the previous day’s sandstorm have erased all elements of humidity and suspended sand particles in the 60

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atmosphere, a combination that creates a soupy brown haze that often covers covered the sky in the Gulf.

The road crews started early. Their sand-plows had already scraped the loose silica from the tracks which led across and around the high dunes toward the sabkha road that led back to Dubai.

Leaning forward from the rear seat, Tim places his folded arms on the back of Lou’s seat. “You’re gonna travel through five Shaikhdoms again today, Ras Al Khaimah first, then Umm Al Quwain, Ajman next, and finally Sharjah and Dubai. You’ll have to visit Abu Dhabi and Fujairah before you leave to make it complete. Unless Bahrain and Qatar join the Federation being promoted by the Brits, these seven Shaikhdoms will probably make up the next official country in the Arabian Gulf. Things will change then—only a matter of time before the power of each of these Northern rulers becomes more and more limited. The oil rich Shaikhdoms like Abu Dhabi and Dubai will dominate.

Remember the Golden Rule.”

Lou pats Tim’s arm. “He who has the gold rules.”

“Not that one.” Tim smiles. “The one with the biggest set of cojones rules. Autocrats like the Shah of Iran, Brezhnev in Russia, and Nassar in Egypt just take the gold for themselves and rule their way.”

“This place is different, Tim. I think Zayed of Abu Dhabi, Rashid of Dubai, Saqr of Ras Al Khaimah, will dominate. The difference between them and a dictator is that they are benevolent monarchs and will use their gold—or rather oil—for the good of their people.” Lou sucks in a deep breath. “We have a lot to decide and, hopefully, a lot of things to do before I head back to New Orleans. I’ll need to see Majid again, as soon as possible.

Can you arrange an appointment for me?”

“No, but my partner Iskar can. As Majid’s assistant, he controls the appointment book. When do you want to see Iskar?”

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“The sooner the better. How about today? Saturday’s a workday, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, but by the time we get back to Dubai, it may be too late. The government offices close at one-thirty. It will be tight, but if we head directly there, we might make it.”

Leaning across the back of the front seat, Tim inches close to the driver’s ear. “Okay, Chandran, show us your stuff. We need to get to Iskar’s office before he goes home. Let’s see if we can make this three-hour drive a two-hour drive.”

Chandran takes his job seriously and follows orders.

Punching his foot to the gas pedal, he guns the engine and almost flies across the first small hill, then around, over, up, and down the others. All the time, Tim and Lou hold on for dear life.

“Alive, alive! We need to get there alive. Slow your ass down,” Tim yells.

As Tim expresses his desire for life, Chandran’s front wheels hurdle from the sand to the beginning of the hard track to Sharjah.

It’s smooth sailing from then on.

As they drive along the sabkha track, Tim’s index finger reaches over the front seat and guides Lou through the borders of the small shaikhdoms of Umm Al Quwain and Ajman. Twenty minutes later, the Sharjah skyline comes into view and soon they pass yesterday’s lunch venue.

“We’ve cut about thirty minutes off of that leg of the trip,” Tim says. “Let’s see what we can do on this last part between here and Dubai.”

“Sahib,” Chandran suggests, “If we take the shoreline route, we can save another twenty minutes.” The winds yesterday should have dried out the sabkha, making it solid enough to travel on, and I put air in the tires so they’re firm again. It could save us enough time to get us to Mr. Tandoody’s office before he leaves.”

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Tim taps Lou on his shoulder. “You’re the casino man. Red is the inland route, black the shore route. Put your money on your color.”

“Black,” Lou replies without hesitation.

“Spin that wheel, Chandran. The man chose black.” Tim slaps his thigh and breaks into his donkey laugh. “You know there’s only a 5.26 percent spread. Red or black are equal to 47.4 percent plus the house spread, so your probability of success is only 42.14 percent.”

Lou’s mouth drops. “Damn, you really are a walking encyclopedia. Even know the odds in roulette.”

“And blackjack and craps. What the fuck do you think we do on the seismic boats and rigs when we have off time?” He hawhaws again. “Are you sure you want to stay with black?”

Coming to a fork in the track, Chandran veers right and heads toward the waters of the Arabian Gulf.

“I already placed my bet, and Chandran rolled the wheel. I can’t change now.”

The sabkha is firm and allows Chandran to pace along at forty-to-fifty miles an hour. Fifteen minutes later, they can see the skyline of Dubai.

Then their pace slows. Chandran pulls behind several cars and a big Bedford truck that are blocking the track. In front of them is a desert traffic jam.

Tim pops his head over the seatback. “Now what the shit is happening?”

“Sir, remember the Land Rover we saw yesterday? Looks like it wasn’t devoured by the sabkha eaters. That big Bedford is trying to pull it out. The drivers and passengers from the other cars are trying to help.”

Chandran parks behind the other cars, shuts off the engine, opens his door, kicks off his sandals, and heads toward the small crowd of people.

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“What’s he doing?” Lou asks impatiently. “Let’s just turn around and head back.”

“Sorry, but timewise, we’ve passed the point of no return.”

Tim opens his door. Sitting on the edge of the seat, he removes his shoes and socks and rolls up his pantlegs to just above the ankle, then hops out to join the rescue effort. “This is the desert. People help people here. It can be a desolate, hostile environment. One thing that all religions, Islam, Christianity, Buddhism, Hindu, or just plain Bedouin ethics teach, is that you help your neighbor.

It’s the right thing to do.”

Walking to the back of their Land Rover, Tim opens the tailgate and removes the small shovel attached to the inside of the cargo box and heads toward the rescue team.

“What the fuck? No meeting with Iskar now,” Lou mutters.

Reluctantly, Lou follows suit and removes his footgear and turns up his pantlegs to join the others.

Tim and Lou stand in front of the army-green truck or lorry, as the Brits call them. The oversized grill and high headlights give the vehicle a “don’t mess with me” look.

Tim grabs Lou’s right arm and guides him around the truck.

“Ya know, these were originally called the Chevrolet Bedford because of the Chevy engine. They really proved themselves in World War Two. They’re tough, versatile, and can go almost anywhere. The four-wheel drive military version is the vehicle of choice for seismic and oil drilling crews in the Rub al Khali desert of the Arabian Peninsula. We have ten of these threeton trucks sitting in our supply yard waiting for a contract with Continental, the oil company developing Dubai’s offshore oilfield. Once exploration starts in Ras Al Khaimah and Sharjah, we can lease some to those companies too.”

The mention of oil and Ras Al Khaimah rouses Lou’s gray matter and, without hesitation, he asks, “You think there is oil in Ras Al Khaimah?”

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The Bedford driver motions the two men away from the truck.

Like a rhino in the wild, the British beast slowly maneuvers and plods through the mud to get to the front of the muck-sucked vehicle, and then straightens out to be in line with it.

Opening his door, the driver jumps from his elevated perch.

From the truck bed, one of his helpers throws down a big coil of thick rope with a large steel ring shackle braided on each end.

As if they’ve done this many times before, they connect one ring to a large hook on the back of the Bedford, then pull the rope toward the front of the four-wheel drive Rover. Two of the men use their hands to dig away mud from under the front bumper so they can reach below to find the towing ring built into the steel frame.

Tim, Chandran, Lou, and the other drivers and passengers dig out as much mud as possible from around the four tires, from under the quarter panels, and from under the floorboards. Tim peers under the vehicle. It’s stuck high center on the mudflats.

“No way they can pull that out of its grave,” he says.

The driver and his team, jabbering in Hindi or Urdu, gesture for the self-appointed rescue squad to move away.

Once the gathering clears, the driver starts his big engine and revs up the horsepower. As he lets out the clutch, the big Bedford lurches forward and, with a jerk, the green Land Rover also moves forward to the cheers of the crowd. And then it rolls back to its original resting place.

The Bedford driver hops out of his truck, throwing his oilstained checkerboard headscarf over his left shoulder and walks back to the stuck Rover. Screaming at his associate behind the Rover’s steering wheel, he then calmly walks back to his vehicle.

“What was that all about?” Lou asks Chandran.

“He just told the guy behind the wheel that when he moves forward, to hit the brake and hold it from rolling backwards again.”

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The truck driver puts the truck in a low gear and pops the clutch. With a bang that sounds like a shotgun being fired, the large towrope snaps and whips back toward the Bedford, hitting the tailgate with a loud “crack” sound.

But on the first thrust, the Rover moves a foot ahead, lifting itself onto higher ground before its umbilical cord breaks. This time the Rover driver did what he was instructed and hit the brakes before it could roll back.

While team Bedford repairs the rope, the rest of the volunteer pit crew push rocks, dead palms, old driftwood, and any other debris they can locate, behind the Rover’s back tires. Digging around the forward wheels, they repeat the process, depositing what they can find nearby in front of the tires to give the fourwheel drive some traction as it moves forward.

The team captain inspects the reunited pieces of rope and walks around the Rover. This time he chatters in his mother tongue to the pit crew.

“He wants us to push from the rear of the vehicle this time while he pulls from the front,” Chandran translates.

Walking to the side of the vehicle, Tim and Chandran take their positions, one on each side of the rear doors, using the doorjamb and window frames of the open windows for leverage to push. Tim directs Lou to take a place behind one of the rear tires to push from the back with the other pit crew team.

Through the opened rear window, Tim looks across the vacant seat at Chandran on the opposite side of the vehicle and snaps his long fingers to get his attention. Silently he motions for him to look out the back window. Seeing Lou ready to push from behind the tire, Chandran turns his head back toward Tim and both smile like impish children who have just set up a prank.

Following instructions that once the signal is given, the Bedford will pull and people power will push, the good Samaritans take their positions. The sound of the Urdu or Hindi, 66

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“One, two, three,” was foreign to Lou, but when the team began pushing, so did he.

With a begrudging grunt, the car begins to move. Just as it neared the crest of the sabkha, it hits a pool of muddy seawater.

As the Bedford continues pulling the Rover through the soupy mixture, all of Lou’s fellow rear-pushers quickly move away.

Lou, however, is oblivious. The Rover’s spinning tires throw a shower of brown slop across a swath of terrain behind the vehicle, covering everything, including Lou’s shirt, pants, face, and hair.

Lou jumps back, his mouth open. He stands with arms held out and head bent down, like Jesus on the cross. Slowly, he looks up and sees the pit crew, including Tim and Chandran, all smiling but successfully suppressing outright laughter at the sight of his muddy façade.

Realizing he went too far, Tim walks toward Lou and hands him a somewhat clean towel. “Man, I’m sorry about that. We should’ve told you to move away as soon as the wheels started to rotate.”

Quietly, Lou glares at Tim while wiping brown filth off his face, head, and hands. “Just like you forgot to tell me that almost all Land Rovers are the same color green. I’m not a naïve tool pusher or some college kid you can haze. I’ve paid my dues.

More than you’ll ever know. Don’t fuck with me again.”

Walking back to their transport, Chandran stands near the open tailgate. He reaches into a cardboard box and takes out a plastic-wrapped package. He opens it and removes a clean pair of workers overalls with the logo DOODS, Dubai Offshore Oil Drilling Supply, on the back. With his head tilted in a “forgive me” puppy-dog look, he hands them to Lou. Lou grabs the coveralls and strips off his shirt and pants.

Sitting on the back tailgate, he pulls them on, both legs at once.

Then he stands and pulls them up over his torso and shoves both 67

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arms through the sleeves.

For the remainder of the trip, except for the outside road noise, the inside of the Land Rover is as quiet as an empty mosque.

At the hotel, Lou quickly exits and heads directly to his room.

Chandran and Tim collect his dirty dress pants and shirt and carry them inside. While Chandran explains to the clerk he wants them cleaned ASAP, Tim heads to the house phone.

“Give me an outside line,” he instructs. For the next few minutes, he chats with someone. Finished with that call, he taps the receiver cradle button several times, breaking the connection and summoning the operator.

“Put me through to Mr. Falconi’s room, please.”

“We’re meeting Iskar at six,” Tim says. “Dress desert casual, shirt and slacks. It’s not too far from here, so we’ll collect you at a quarter ‘til—plenty of time for you to shower and get some rest.”

Still smarting from today’s experience, Lou half-heartedly squeezes out a quiet, “Thank you. I’ll be ready.” He immediately places a call to Uncle Fabio in New Orleans to brief him on his meeting with Majid and visit to Ras Al Khaimah. **** Promptly at the appointed time, Lou exits the hotel lobby to the waiting vehicle—this time a blue ’65 Chevy Impala. Already standing next to the car, Tim opens the front passenger door for Lou and then walks around to the driver’s side.

While Tim drives, he turns his gaze toward Lou, his attention momentarily diverted from the road ahead. “Iskar is renovating his beachfront villa and is residing at my place until it’s finished.

Arriving at his villa, he gives three short beeps from the horn as he parks in front of two ten-foot steel gates.

Lou exits the car and stands in front of the steel entrance.

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The sounds of chattering animals and chirping birds can be heard from the other side of the high perimeter walls.

As he waits for Tim to lead the way, he examines the intricate scrolling design on the gates and the small man-door, about four feet high, that is cut into one of the large gates.

Seeing him look at it strangely, Tim grins. “Servants and children in the family use these mini-gates. The large gates of a villa are only opened for the master of the house and special guests.”

Hearing the flip-flop of rubber sandals approaching, Lou steps back to allow the gate to swing open.

Lou steps into the courtyard and encounters an animal menagerie. To the right, two chimps with furless red bottoms play on ropes and tire-swings in a large cage. Next to their monkey house is an aviary with numerous varieties of parrots, parakeets, and other small singing birds. And next to the birdhouse is another cage with several smaller, long-tailed monkeys, like the ones that hold a tin cup to collect alms for their organ-grinder master.

As he walks past the red-butted monkey house, the two primates lunge toward the front of the cage and loudly converse with each other in their animal tongue.

“Better move away from the cage—they’re shit slingers. We don’t want to get out another pair of coveralls for you,” Tim suggests with a smile.

Lou scoots back and heads for the entrance just as a glob of monkey feces exits the cage and lands just behind him.

As he enters the foyer Lou notices several pairs of shoes are neatly placed on a small Persian carpet set to the side.

Tim kicks off his loafers. Apparently, Tim has gone native, at least regarding the tradition of removing one’s shoes before entering the house.

Lou removes his shoes and places them on the shoe stand.

Peeking through the doorway to the living room, the snow-white 69

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thick pile carpeting catches his eye. Maybe it isn’t Arab tradition but just an effort to keep his white shag clean. Following inbred habits, he studies the room.

A man with a coffee complexion sits at the grand piano, keying a Sinatra tune and singing softly.

Tim grabs Lou’s arm and leads him to the piano. “Lou, this is Iskar Tandoody.”

Tandoody stops playing and slides his legs over the polished bench, swings around to face him, and grudgingly extends his hand. When Lou grasps for the handshake, an unpleasant thought enters his mind. It’s like shaking the hand of a dead man or a limp penis—or a dead man’s limp penis. Evidently, this man felt he was well above Lou’s status and would just let him do all the work.

Without paying much attention to the handshake or to Lou, Iskar spins back toward the piano and grabs a gold cigarette case and matching Cartier lighter sitting on the music rack, just above the ebony and ivory keys. Pressing a button on the front side of the case, it flips open to reveal a row of perfectly aligned French-made Gauloise cigarettes. After leisurely retrieving one, he again reaches toward the music shelf to deposit the case and grasps a black cigarette holder.

It looks expensive, probably honed from some precious stone.

As if in his own slow-motion world, Iskar leisurely inserts the cigarette into the holder and delicately places it between his lips. Again, he swings around to face the two men.

Tim gently seizes the firestick, from the music rack. Lifting the gold lighter towards the smoker, he flicks the end and lights the cigarette.

Iskar takes a big drag, exhales, and slowly stands, revealing his slight stature. He strolls to the sitting area, where he reclines in the middle section of the three seat Italian leather sofa. “Come join me,” he summons.

This guy is smooth and has class, just like the Great Gatsby.

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The only problem, it is now the ‘60s, not the ‘20s. As he heads toward the wingback chair across from Iskar, Lou thinks about that classic novel and its main character, Jay Gatsby, a wheeler dealer and a con artist.

Silence ensues as Tim walks back toward the kitchen, leaving the two aspiring big shots to size up each other.

Iskar slowly puts his left arm across the top of the empty adjacent cushion, then uses his right hand to raise the black holder to his lips, slowly inhaling and exhaling, all the while looking silently at the Italian outsider.

Lou’s played this game before and wordlessly smiles at the sophisticated pianist.

In what is just a few minutes but feels like an hour, the creaking sound of a door opening, footsteps, and the clanking of glass on glass and silver utensils bumping glass, breaks the silent staring contest. Tim enters the room, followed by two servants laden with coffee, tea, and Arabic pastries. He motions for them to put the goodies on the low cocktail table in front of Iskar.

Before the servers can start serving, Tim puts out his hand, palm downward, and waves rapidly to the two coffee boys as if saying goodbye like a baby might. They turn and walk back through the door to the kitchen.

Tim glances from one to the other. “Why do they call the camel the ship of the desert?” he blurts out. Before anyone reacts, he answers, “Because it’s full of Arab semen!” and then laughs his distinctive “Haw, haw, haw.”

Both men smile and simultaneously reach for the same cup of tea, their hands touching. Instinctively, they quickly jerk away and look into each other’s eyes. This time, the laughing is genuine as they hand a cup and saucer to the other. In that moment in time, they silently agree they may not like each other yet, but they can work together.

Still smiling, Iskar initiates the conversation. “Tim tells me you need to see Majid again. How about tomorrow morning at 71

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nine at the Ruler’s office?”

“That would be great, Mr. Tandoody.”

“Please call me Iskar. I have a good feeling we’ll be working together a lot. Mr. bin Jabir has filled me in on the business discussions with your family. He asks me to work out the details with you to make sure everyone’s a winner. Including us.” Iskar leans back. “Tim has told you about our oilfield supply company, I presume?”

Lou smiles again. “Yes, I even have a pair of DOODS coveralls.” But he doesn’t share the details as to how he came into possession of them.

“As some of the collateral for your family’s investment, half of Dubai Offshore Oil Drilling Supply is yours. Tim and I are partners under local law, but it belongs to His Highness and Majid. We’re just small shareholders. I have instructions to sign over fifty percent of the company to you. All the other companies your family and associates establish will be owned one hundred percent by your corporation in whatever legal entity you wish to establish them. Licensing will be issued directly by the Ruler’s office under his decree. A ten percent net overriding royalty in each company goes to the government. The structure of these new companies will be worked out between you and me and our legal teams.”

“What about the government’s share of the oil production?”

Lou asks. “We’d feel more comfortable if we had a piece of the production to guarantee our capital investment.”

“That may be difficult, as the concession agreement is directly between the oil company and the Dubai government.”

Iskar’s body language indicates to Lou that this is delicate topic.

“I can discuss this with Majid,” Lou replies.

“No, that’s not how it’s done. Mr. bin Jabir may wish to have a discussion with your uncle, but that is confidential between them and not for our ears. We only carry out whatever they wish to share with us and work out any of the business arrangements.”

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“I understand,” Lou replies. Smart. No witnesses to any shady deals—only the two principals. I’m sure the Ruler has no idea how Majid is procuring the funds he needs, nor, for now, does he care.

As they finish their tea, Tim brings out a bottle of cold Moet with three glasses and announces, “This calls for a celebration,” as he pours two glasses, then fills the third with Perrier water.

“We’re like a peanut butter sandwich. Two white Americans with a brown Indian in the middle.” Tim adds his trademark laugh.

The three men stand and touch glasses, “Cheers,” Tim offers, “to new partners, future friends, and future business!”

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Chapter 6 The Bagman Sunday morning March 21, 1965

Tim is prompt, collecting Lou thirty minutes before their appointed meeting time. As they approach the Maktoum Bridge, a line of cars is backed up waiting for the raised drawbridge section of the water overpass to return to its normal position so traffic flow can resume.

“Shit, this could take an hour.” Tim points to a tugboat coming up the Creek. “The bridge is up while that tug passes under. I think we better take an abra across.” Making a quick turn, he reroutes toward the water taxi station. A few minutes later, they park and make the short hike towards the organized chaos of watercraft going in and out of the passenger pick-up dock.

As they walk down the ramp, they’re mobbed by hordes of boat operators and their agents trying to solicit business from what they perceive as tourists looking for a private tour of Dubai’s colorful waterway. “TARUUH! IMSHII! GO AWAY!” Tim orders, all the while doing his palm-downward, wavinghand gesture as he clears the path to the colorfully painted vessels.

Lou watches the routes of the moving boats as they reach the middle of the creek and split into three directions, landing at different points on the opposite bank. “How do we know which 74

As told by Luigi Falconi to John Dragonetti

taxi to take?”

“See where that big crane is positioned to your left? That’s the customs house where the Ruler’s office is located. That’s where they offload cargo for customs payments and storage.”

“That ol’ place is the Ruler’s Office where Majid works?”

Lou scoffs at the unpretentious structure.

Tim points to the construction site next to it. “Only until that new one is built.”

Following his leader, Lou climbs down crumbling concrete steps where about ten boats are crammed like bumper cars.

Carefully maneuvering the tricky up and down rhythm of the boats, they jump from vessel to vessel until Tim reaches his chosen craft. The flat deck has a raised platform in the middle that’s covered in bright linoleum. Tim instructs Lou to take a seat, squeezing him between two hefty passengers with their fish-reeking plastic bags sitting between their feet. Reaching in his pocket, Tim pulls out a five-riyal bill, worth about $1.25, and hands it to the fare collector. Before the conductor can make change, Tim holds up two fingers and points to Lou, indicating he is paying for both passengers. As the conductor offers change, Tim makes his normal hand gesture, and in English says, “Keep the change,” giving the boatman a windfall of ten times the toll.

Before Tim can take a seat, the engines rev and the taxi lurches forward, creating a path by bumping and shoving its way out of the crowded boat park. Tim grabs Lou’s shoulder to steady himself and holds on for the choppy ride.

Reaching the middle of the creek, their taxi breaks rank and veers toward the left on a direct path toward the crane. As they draw close to their destination, the Indian gondoliere cuts the engine and glides gracefully between two parked craft.

Skillfully disembarking by stepping from their boat to another and then jumping onto the concrete dock, the two passengers head for their venue. Precisely at 9:00 a.m., Tim escorts Lou 75

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through the maze of offices, stopping at a large wooden door bearing a simple plastic plate with the name Majid bin Jabir engraved on it.

A humble epithet for a man I was told is the most powerful person in Dubai next to the Ruler.

As they enter the large office, Lou is struck by its simplicity.

One cracked, dirty, fake leather couch is positioned along one wall, and straight-back cheap chairs line the remaining perimeter of the office walls. At one end of the room is a single desk with two guest chairs. The desk is positioned to control access to the door in the rear of the room.

The room is half-filled with visitors sporting various traditional garb identifying their country or tribal origins.

Walking toward the empty sofa, Tim directs, “You sit here, and Iskar will take you to meet Mr. bin Jabir. I’ve got work to do.” And with that adieu, Tim leaves Lou to his fate.

Looking around the room, Lou surmises this must be the VIP couch. After an hour, no Iskar, and he’s growing impatient.

My family would never treat a guest this way. By 10:30 a.m., the office becomes standing-room only as all the chairs are occupied

by Arabs or others in their national dress, some with and others without the cloth headdress.

The once comfortable VIP couch now holds two hefty Arabs, one medium size Arab, and Lou, thus making his cozy seating arrangement stifling hot. Even with the open windows to allow some cooler air to circulate, the room becomes stuffy with the humid air emitting the aroma of a pungent stew of body odors.

Pulling out his handkerchief, Lou wipes sweat from his brow and pulls down on his knotted tie to allow some air down his shirt. His seatmates appear cool and comfortable—and he now understands why those loose robes were worn. The white sack dress reflects the heat from the sun and allows air to blow up your crotch, keeping those Arabian jewels cool.

After another thirty minutes, two servers enter the room and 76

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offer coffee, tea, and water. The door behind the desk opens, and Iskar casually strolls in. Immediately, the entire group stands.

Lou follows suit and then walks toward Iskar.

Without acknowledging anyone, Iskar takes his seat at the desk. The crowd, including Lou, return to their seats.

Continuing to ignore the visitors, Iskar reads documents on his desk, scribbles on the occasional paper, and pauses to drag on his cigarette. Finally, he motions to one of the older Arab visitors, who promptly rises and using a cane, slowly limps toward Iskar. As he arrives at the desk, Iskar stands and steps toward the elderly Arab man. Each of them places their hands on the outside shoulders of the other, and then touch right cheek to right cheek, left cheek to left cheek and then right cheeks again, while verbally greeting each other. The old man sits, taking the chair at the side of the desk.

Remembering this form of salutation in his first meeting with Majid, Lou now understands this is a normal Middle Eastern greeting. Coming from an Italian family that expresses emotions physically with men as easily as it does with women, he feels comfortable with this gesture. Overthinking the movement, he wonders if there’s symbolic meaning in the fact that this guy received a three-cheek greeting, but he only received a twocheeker from Majid.

During the next hour, Lou is fascinated watching Iskar conduct business with individuals in the room. He would invite a specific person to sit on one of two chairs near the desk. In the presence of everyone in the room, the two execute their affairs.

Sometimes both seats are occupied, and Iskar carries on dual discussions. The onlookers, especially the local Arabs, strain to hear what is being said. Iskar apparently feels no need for confidentiality and makes no attempt to keep his voice down.

Lou admires how Iskar bounces from English to Arabic to Farsi and Hindi as if it were one language, aware that his own linguistic skills are limited to English and Sicilian Italian. Arabic 77

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will be my next language.

Some of the discussions between Iskar and a visitor are business matters, others are pleas for government help for an airline ticket for a holiday or to make the Hajj. Some request medical treatment in India, or for a scholarship to study abroad, or just a handout. It seems that Iskar not only handles Mr. bin Jabir’s business, but he also is influential in recommending to Mr. bin Jabir which of these petitioners are deserving of their request. Since Iskar is the one who distributes these favors, he is a powerful man in the eyes of the local Arab petitioners. Three hours after arriving for his scheduled appointment, Lou is finally summoned to the bench.

As he walks toward the desk, Iskar stands to greet him.

Expecting the Arabian cheek kiss, he bends forward only to see the back of Iskar walking toward the door behind his desk and motioning for him to follow.

“My apologies for the delay. Majid has a busy schedule and we had to work out details of our arrangements before your visit.

As you see, we carry out most of His Highness’ social services— besides the country’s business—and I also manage his personal businesses.”

“Of course. I understand. I found it very informative to see how things work. You don’t learn these things in a Harvard MBA class. I guess you could say this was my first class toward my Masters of Arab Business Administration, an MABA.” Iskar smiles as he escorts Lou through the door of the next office, and then leaves. **** The room is a stark contrast to the dingy outer workplace he just vacated. The elaborate office looks like it has been professionally decorated, this time more tastefully than Majid’s house. Against the rear wall is an expansive mahogany executive 78

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desk with the important man in his white robes and headgear seated behind it.

Not yet feeling comfortable with initiating the traditional greeting, Lou walks toward the desk to offer his respect with a Western handshake. Before their hands can meet, Majid rises, walks around his desk, and stands face-to-face with his visitor.

This time Lou knows how to react. When Majid’s hands touch Lou’s shoulders, he instinctively reaches out and simultaneously places his hands on Majid’s shoulders as they both bend toward each other and touch right cheek to right cheek, left cheek to left cheek. Lou begins to break the hug when he feels Majid’s cheek touch his right cheek again. Wow. A three-cheeker. I’ve moved up in the Arab world.

“Please have a seat,” Majid instructs. “My apologies for my tardiness. His Highness needed to be briefed on our discussions and plans. He has given his full support to move forward.”

“No apologies necessary. We all have our priorities and duties to our bosses.”

Majid skips the normal pleasantries and, with a calming smile, ventures right into the business at hand. He looks toward Iskar in the next chair, as if needing a reaffirmation of what he was about to say, and then turns his attention back to Lou. “I understand from Iskar that your family is now partners in an oilfield supply company in Dubai.”

“Uncle Fabio sends his regards and thanks you for your kindness. I spoke to him earlier this morning, and he and the family have agreed to the support what you discussed with him.

Already our legal team is working with our friends in the oil services business. When I return from Beirut, I’ll be accompanied by the president of McDermott Arabian Gulf to meet you and Shaikh Rashid. They’ve agreed with Uncle Fabio to establish a fabrication and operations base in Dubai. They’re one of the largest and most prestigious international offshore pipeline and 79

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fabrication companies. The fact that Dubai will be the center of their Arabian Gulf operations will be a financial gain for all of us.”

“Yes, I am quite familiar with them. Your uncle introduced me to their McDermott International chairman when they first set up their operation in Beirut. This is wonderful news for Dubai, becoming the center of their Middle East activities. Will they close the Beirut office?”

“Most of the people and equipment will be moving here. As business develops in this region, I predict that the Beirut office will eventually become just representative.

“In addition, the offshore boat company Marine Offshore Maintenance Services will be moving some of their larger service and supply vessels from the US Gulf coast to Dubai. A close family member, Nicholas Nicandro, is the Chairman, and will be relocating here to set up and manage the operation. Nic has a good head for the boat business and knows how to make money. He’s ready to relocate as soon as we give the word.”

“Wonderful, I have some new beachfront villas being built next to my home. I’ll reserve one for him and one for the head of McDermott. What about the funds?”

“Our lawyers are working with Meyer Lansky and your London attorneys to see the best way to funnel in the infrastructure funds. We believe the first tranche of one hundred million dollars should be sent before the end of the month,” Lou states. “One more thing we need is a large piece of land on the Creek. I see some open areas just before and after the Maktoum bridge on both sides of the bridge. We’d need to do some dredging and landfilling, but it would be a perfect location for a boat jetty and fabrication yard for McDermott as well as our company.”

“One problem we have is that many of our traders and His Highness use the warehouses to store equipment and goods that they haven’t been able to sell. Business has been difficult for them,” Majid says.

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“Are the buildings insured?” Lou asks candidly.

“When I came to Dubai and became Head of Customs, I followed many of the procedures used in Bahrain. One of the first things I did was to insure them through Lloyds of London.”

“How much do you have them insured for?”

“At this point,” Iskar responds, “about two million dollars per each of the four buildings including contents. We give the insurance company a declaration every six months and premiums are based on the value. We’re due for a new evaluation next month.”

“Are the present values enough for the traders and His Highness to recover their losses?”

“Yes, on a break-even basis, not including loss revenue for the traders for having goods sitting in a warehouse for a year.”

Iskar says. “We also didn’t include a value of the old warehouses which are almost worthless in their present condition.”

“I suggest that you include a replacement value for the warehouses in the policy and inflate the value of the goods a bit—say twenty-five percent,” Lou states and turns to Majid.

“Mr. bin Jabir, our family has a technique that has proven highly effective in our real estate ventures in New Orleans, Houston, and other cities the families operate in. I believe it will be extremely helpful to His Highness and all your traders to help carry them through their immediate economic problems.”

Majid replies, “I’d like to hear about that. Iskar, can you excuse us for a moment?”

For the next thirty minutes, Lou explains to Majid the method he recommends and the details of how it would be executed.

“The beauty of doing this with outside specialists is that nothing or no one locally can be implicated. I will need to have Tim and Iskar pull in a few favors, but that’s all.”

Knowing how desperate the situation is for the local businessmen, Majid doesn’t hesitate to agree with Lou’s plan.

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“All communication is with Iskar and Tim. You and I will never discuss this issue again.”

“I understand, and I believe that you’ll be pleased with the results.”

Majid redirects the conversation. “Will you be spending more time in our country?”

“I would like to learn more about the culture and language of the Middle East. Unfortunately, unless my uncle has a reason allowing me to stay, my role will be completed once we get the companies established and operational.”

“We’d like to keep you around. If you don’t mind, I will speak to your uncle. What did you think about Ras al Khaimah?”

Lou’s eyes betray his effort not to appear too enthusiastic. “I think there is a great opportunity for a casino there if Shaikh Saqr agrees. If planning starts now, it could be ready for operations within one year.

“Tim Johnson showed me seismic lines of their offshore area extending into Omani waters up through the tip of the Musandam. It looks very encouraging, not for an elephant field like Saudi has, but for several small ones. Linked together, they could be substantial. I believe we can form a consortium with our family and yours to bring in one of the companies operating off the USA Gulf Coast to sign a concession with Ras al Khaimah.

This could be our sweetener.”

“Bravo, Mr. Falconi. That’s just what Shaikh Saqr needs to hear when you meet him this afternoon. Your appointment is set for four p.m. I know your time is limited, so I’ve already asked Iskar to arrange for one of our Defense Force helicopters to fly you there.”

82

Chapter 7 Ras al Khaimah Sunday afternoon March 21, 1965

Back at the hotel, Lou packs his bags for his evening return flight to New Orleans. After his meeting with the Ruler in Ras Al Khaimah, he plans to travel to Beirut, spending a few days visiting his cousin Frankie, who is attending university there, and then stop in London to see bankers regarding the transfer of funds to Dubai and to meet with the family’s lawyers.

Before going to Ras al Khaimah, he wants to talk to Tim Johnson. Picking up the phone, he gives the operator Tim’s office number.

After one ring, a sweetly accented operator announces, “Dubai Offshore Oil Drilling Supply. How may I direct your call?”

“Mr. Johnson please. Tell him it’s Lou.” “So, they finally released you,” Tim says when he answers the call. “How long did you have to wait for your five-minute meeting?”

“Well, the meeting lasted sixty minutes, so I guess it was worth the three-hour wait. Sweet voice your receptionist has.

French?”

“Actually Belgium. She’s here with her boyfriend who works on one of the rigs. He’s offshore seven days at a time, so if you want to meet her, I can arrange it. I know her boss and she’ll do anything for him.”

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Lou hears the change in Tim’s tone, sensing he’s smiling after his last comment. “Maybe my next visit. I have an appointment with the Ruler of Ras al Khaimah this afternoon. Can you come by with those seismic lines off their coast that you have? I need to borrow them, but first you need to brief me.”

“I’ll be over in thirty minutes.” Without a goodbye, Tim hangs up, leaving Lou listening to the disconnect sound. **** Removing the large paper rolls of seismic from their cylindrical tube, Tim unrolls them across the hotel bed and places ashtrays and books on the ends to keep them from springing back to their tube form. Excitedly, he explains to Lou what the squiggly lines mean to the trained eye of a petroleum geologist.

Tim was self-educated in the oil and gas industry, but his six years working, listening, and watching on rigs and seismic vessels gave him a better education in the oil patch than most Petroleum engineers. “Look at this here.” He excitedly points to the middle row of paper on the bed. “These are the important ones.”

Lou bends down to take a closer look. “Looks like a bunch of squiggly lines to me.”

With his long index finger, Tim traces the contour of the lines showing the bumps he was referring to. “This area here shows what they call a bright spot and indicates the presence of hydrocarbons. Of course, geology is still not an exact science, so you need to drill to prove what you think is there.”

“Does this seismic only cover offshore?”

“Yes. The closest to land are the lines that were shot in the three-mile limit territorial waters of Abu Musa Island, which is under the jurisdiction of Sharjah. The seismic company was given permission by Sharjah to record in their waters in return for a copy of the lines of seismic that cover their territorial waters.

The structure that the geophysicists identified has closure about 84

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eight miles from Abu Musa waters, in what the British agree is Ras Al Khaimah territorial water.”

Tim pauses and sits on the edge of the bed. “Too bad that island belongs to Sharjah. It would have been a great place to establish a terminal. You could build storage tanks and loading facilities on it. Hell, with the new directional drilling technology, you might be able to drill onshore and directional drill into the structure. A lot cheaper than the day rates for an offshore jack-up drilling rig.”

“Do you have a copy of these seismic lines?” Lou asks. “I need to take them with me.”

“All yours. I have others.”

“I need one more bit of information. I need to know why Majid is so important?”

Tim looks up with a puzzled and surprised look.

“My Uncle Fabio knows Majid well, but he hasn’t told me much about him.”

“It’s a long story,” Tim says, “but I’ll give you the Cliff Notes version. Majid bin Jabir came from Bahrain, and like many of the local families there, he traces his heritage to Iran. His parents were teachers, affluent enough to be able to send him to school in Qatar, where he received a traditional English education. His English is as good as the Queen’s, and besides Arabic, he speaks fluent French, Farsi, and has a good command of the Indian and Pakistani tribal dialects.”

Pouring a glass of water from the pitcher on the coffee table, Tim takes a swallow and continues. “After completing his education, he returned to Bahrain and worked under the British adviser in the Customs and Immigration Department.

When Dubai started to get popular with the traders, the British Political Office asked him to go to Dubai to work in the customs office. Rumor was Majid had pissed off some well-connected Brit official and they wanted to exile him.”

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With a boisterous laugh, Tim slaps his hands, emitting a loud clap. “I’ll bet that Brit can’t set foot in Dubai. Instead of a punishment, Majid got the keys to the city and the treasure chest.

“His new job in Dubai was to collect customs duty and turn it over to the British Residency Office, who would keep the biggest share and give the remainder to the Ruler. But ol’ Majid obviously wasn’t a fan of the Brits, so when he came to work in Dubai, he did what the Ruler did for years before the Brits inserted themselves into the middle—he personally went out to each dhow and collected the payment from the nakhuda, the captain. But instead of sending the money to the British, he took it directly to Shaikh Rashid, who took his share first, and then Majid would send the reminder to the Brits, their pound of flesh. This really ingratiated him to the Ruler, who made Jabir head of customs.”

“Sounds like a shrewd operator.” Lou grins.

“Yes, but he was also really good at his job and increased custom fees and streamlined operations, making it more efficient and a good profit for the Ruler. But unlike the Brits, he encouraged smuggling, oops, I mean transshipping, especially gold, which really brought in the income. Now he’s the most important man in Dubai, having his hands in most business enterprises.”

“So, he’s the Ruler’s bagman,” Lou says as a matter of fact.

“He’s a front for the Ruler, making things happen but keeping the Ruler out of the collection business.”

“Yep, and with unwritten or unspoken permission from the Ruler, Majid gets his ten percent. Nothing happens here without Majid’s approval and being involved. You don’t get to the Ruler without going through him. He has the ability to deal with the small businessmen and the charm and sophistication to negotiate with the chairmen of big corporations as well as foreign ambassadors. He’s the one that brought in Continental to explore and discover oil here.” That’s why he’s been appointed Head of the Petroleum Department.

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“Ol’ Jabir is the master of the ten percent fee. He’s even known as Mr. Ten Percent. Now, don’t let his looks fool you. He may appear to be just another Arab when he wears his dishdasha, but put him in one of his tailor-made two-thousand-dollar Savile Row suits and he becomes the millionaire businessman that he is.”

Lou begins rolling up the seismic printouts while outside the “whup, whup, whup” sound of a helicopter engine becomes louder. “Thanks, Tim. Sounds like my ride is arriving.”

Tim heads for the door. “Well, good luck with whatever you’re doing in Ras al Khaimah.” **** With the rolls of seismic under his arm, Lou walks to the helipad and greets the British officer who is to be his escort.

“Welcome aboard our chopper, Mr. Falconi. I’m Lieutenant Samuel Sweeney. If you need anything, let me know.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant. I’m pleased to meet you. Is it possible to fly along the shoreline? I’m especially interested in the Ras al Khaimah coast that extends out to the Island of Abu Musa.”

“We usually do a straight line shot along the beach toward Umm Al Quwain and then a cut across to Ras al Khaimah. Abu Musa is in the middle of the Gulf, adding about sixty miles to our flight. Let me check with the pilot. If we have enough fuel, it shouldn’t be a problem.”

The lieutenant waits as Lou is seated, instructs him on the safety rules, and shows him how to use the complex cross-over seatbelt harness. “You can listen to everyone on board and speak through this mic by pressing this button.” He takes the adjoining seat.

Flying along the seaboard toward Sharjah and Ajman, the sandy beach below is a stark contrast to the vivid hues of turquoise, green, and deep blue water of the Gulf. Once reaching 87

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Umm Al Quwain, the topography begins its subtle change, becoming rockier and eventually morphing into more hilly and mountainous terrain.

As the helicopter veers left, heading East over open water, Lou hears Sweeney through the earphones, “The pilot says we’re clear to fly over Abu Musa.”

Engrossed with his sightseeing, Lou is startled a short time later when he again hears the lieutenant’s voice through the earphones saying they are coming up on the island.

Seeing the island, Lou presses his mic button. “That’s a pretty small island.”

“Yes, but very strategic. With proper sea and air defenses, it can control access in and out of the Arabian Gulf. Ships that come in through the Straits of Hormuz have to pass by that island to get to Iraq, Saudi, Kuwait, Bahrain, Qatar, and ports in northwest Iran. That little island can control egress for all the oil tankers heading to market and the empty ones coming in to load.”

Lou takes in all he sees as the chopper banks right and heads to the Ruler’s Palace in Ras al Khaimah.

After the soft set down, the engine slowly sputters to silence and the doors open. Lou exits and is met by a young Middle Eastern-looking man in a Western suit. “Mr. Falconi, pleased to meet you. I’m Toufiq Abdul Kazim,” he says while shaking hands, “advisor to His Highness Shaikh Saqr. Please let me show you the way.”

The building in front of them is a complex of one and two stories. Almost like giving a salute, Lou raises his right hand to shield his eyes from the late afternoon sun that reflects off the white walls. “Is this the Ruler’s new palace?”

“This is his office and evening majlis where he meets his subjects after prayers and sometimes has dinner with the men in the family.”

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In front of the entrance are two soldiers or jundi guarding the arched wooden doors. As the two men approach, the sentries simultaneously open both large doors, allowing them to pass.

Entering a foyer, Toufiq leads the way into a large rectangle room with a high vaulted ceiling. The center of the room is void of seating or other furniture, but the perimeter walls are lined with decorative chairs and sofas interspersed with coffee tables. At the far end are five large chairs, the middle one much larger than the two on each side. Occupying three of the chairs are Arab men in white flowing robes and ghutra headcover. In the grand center chair sits a distinguished-looking gentleman wearing an elaborate black bisht. As Lou draws closer, he does his usual inspection, mentally recording his first impression of the man he assumes is Shaikh Saqr, the Ruler of Ras al Khaimah.

Although partially covered by a black beard, the weathered face exhibits years of exposure to the wicked desert sun, a lifestyle Lou thinks would make a man hardened toward strangers, and yet his piercing green eyes and smile exuded a cordial welcome.

The man seems comfortable in his ruler’s clothing, but Lou surmises he would have been just as comfortable in traditional desert attire.

Lou would later learn this welcoming attitude is ingrained in the desert Bedouin Arab, where etiquette and Islam demanded all strangers and visitors be accepted to their camp, and that a man born in the desert life is molded by and always is a part of his culture as dictated by his environment.

Before he reaches the man in the middle chair, Toufiq gently grabs his arm and guides him to one of the chairs on the side of the room and both sit. For the next ten minutes, the Ruler converses with one of the two men until the visitor abruptly rises and, in Arabic, gives what must be his valediction and walks toward the exit.

The other gentleman who is seated to the right of the Ruler also rises and approaches Lou. “Mr. Falconi, welcome to Ras Al 89

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Khaimah. I’m Shaikh Khalil, the Crown Prince. Please let me introduce you to my father.”

Both men walk toward the Ruler. As Khalil steps back, Shaikh Saqr stands, offers a welcoming Western handshake, and in passable English says, “Welcome to our humble town. Please be seated.” He points at the chair to his right.

Khalil takes the chair to the left of his father, and Toufiq sits next to Lou. For the next few minutes, the Ruler switches between English and Arabic with Toufiq interpreting when necessary, asking Lou about America, his family, and what he thinks of the Trucial States. Enjoying the discussion, Lou expresses the affinity he has developed during his short visit and explains that his family are investing in business in Dubai. He personally hopes to relocate to direct the opportunities in Dubai and to pursue business prospects in Ras al Khaimah also. Telling His Highness how pleased he is to meet him and Shaikh Khalil, he makes sure to interject Majid’s name into the conversation as well.

Throughout the discussion, Lou is surprised and pleased he can follow bits of the dialogue by picking up on the English terms interspersed with some words in Arabic that the father and son are using and that he already recognizes.

Silence prevails during the serving of tea and Middle Eastern pastries. Once Shaikh Khalil sees that Lou has finished his refreshments, he resumes the discussion, turning from social to business. “Mr. Lou, my father and I understand that you have a business proposition for Ras al Khaimah.”

“Your Highness, my family has been very successful in the gaming industry in the United States and in Cuba. You’re aware of the political situation in Cuba with the Castro communist regime so close to the shores of America.”

“Yes,” Khalil says. “We have been faced with a similar situation in the Musandam with communist insurgents infiltrating 90

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our territory to enter and destabilize Oman. Unfortunately, some of that has spilled across our borders at Shams. However, the British Defense Forces supported by our brave tribesmen have it under control. Please continue.”

“I believe the future Petro-income of the Trucial states will offer windfall opportunities for even the smallest city-state, including yours. The prospect of your beautiful beaches, rugged mountains, and enchanting desert could be a draw for tourists all over the world.”

After translating for his father, an agitated Shaikh Khalil turns to Lou. “Yes, but to build hotels and tourism takes time and money we don’t have. To find gas or oil under our sea or land could take years, Inshallah (if God is willing). How can we financially survive until then?”

Quietly, the Ruler raises his right hand, asking for silence.

With the Crown Prince translating, the Ruler speaks, “Tourism is for the future. Mr. Lou, we are a poor state and without oil. We need development now?”

Lou nods sympathetically. “With the help of foreign aid, Ras al Khaimah is planning big improvements to their Khor.

My family can help with that by bringing oil and gas service companies to establish bases in your Creek, like we plan to do in Dubai. Your strategic location close to the Straits of Hormuz makes it an ideal place.”

Shaikh Khalil again translates for his father and then turns to Lou. “Yes, but all in the long-term future.”

“Not at all. I realize it will take time to enhance tourism from outside the area, but there is already a huge influx of foreigners who are resident in Abu Dhabi and Dubai and even in Saudi, and more are coming. Where can they go for a break? I believe we can draw them to Ras al Khaimah for weekends, short holidays, and other time off work.”

“Nonsense. Why would they come here when they have sand and sea there?” spat Khalil.

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“Because we will have something none of them will have.”

Khalil explains Lou’s comments to the Ruler, who then leans forward, close to Lou’s face, and in surprisingly good English asks, “What can we have that they won’t have, and how soon can we have it?”

“A casino! You already have a good hotel, so we can set up in there while we build a proper Ras al Khaimah Hotel as a venue. We can be ready for clients within six months with income for the state. A new hotel can be constructed and ready in two years.”

Hearing the word “income” catches Khalil’s attention. “How much?”

“I can’t give an exact figure, but we can start at two million dollars a year and increase as business develops.”

“Not enough,” Khalil spews, his vitriol ignored by his father.

“That’s not all, we are also forming a locally owned oil and gas company to partner with an international oil company to do further exploration onshore and to drill in the formations I have seen on the seismic that was shot over the Ras Al Khaimah coastal waters.”

After explaining the dialogue to the Ruler, he smiles and replies in English, “Majid told me you had a good plan.” He smiles.

“Who will be partners in the locally formed company?”

Toufiq, who had been silently listening, asks.

Khalil nods to Lou. “Mr. Toufiq is my father’s advisor, as Majid is to Shaikh Rashid of Dubai. He has been doing his best to bring in outside companies, but their terms are atrocious, as they feel the risks are high and demand most of the profits.”

Toufiq picks up the role of translator as the Ruler again enters the discussion. “They call us pirates, yet these foreign companies are the real thieves. They want eighty percent and only offer us twenty. What terms will you offer?”

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“Any oil deal we do will be a fair deal,” Lou responds. “We’ll set new terms for Ras al Khaimah—equal partners. Our faction will consist of my family and whomever you and Mr. bin Jabir wish to be involved.”

Not concerned that his knowledge of terms of the oil business is almost nil, Lou follows Uncle Fabio’s philosophy of offering whatever is needed to get the deal and takes the leap. “We will make sure the government gets a good signing bonus, a fifty percent share of net profits after cost recovery by the consortium, and a five percent overriding royalty on production,” Lou proposes, stressing the percentage part of the deal. “We’ll bring in one of the Petroleum companies who have concessions in our Gulf of Mexico to be partners with us and to operate.”

The three Arabs converse together as Lou futilely listens, trying to understand.

Toufiq turns to face Lou. “In regard to the casino, the Ruler will receive fifty percent of the casino net profits from day one.

Once you recover your capital costs, it goes to sixty percent.

You’ll have an open-ended contract to run the casino for an operating fee in addition to your share.”

“You’re a tough bargainer, Mr. Toufiq,” Lou responds with a big smile, knowing that Meyer’s bookkeeping skills would change those percentages in the family’s favor.

“I see why the Ruler trusts your advice. It’s a deal. You and I can work out the follow-up details for our lawyers.”

“On the issue of the oil concession,” Toufiq continues, “bring a reputable company who is prepared to offer the terms and partnerships you propose, and you’ll have a deal.”

Silence ensues as the four men become self-absorbed with what has just transpired. A smiling Toufiq breaks the relaxed calm. “I suggest that you cancel your flight and stay with us for a few days. We have a guest house on the beach. This will give us time to work on our agreements and to show you the real Ras Al Khaimah, the one most foreigners never see.”

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“That’s kind of you, Mr. Toufiq, but I only have the business clothes I’m wearing, and I need my notebooks and other materials.”

“We’ll arrange for your things to be brought from your hotel.

In the meantime, as long as you don’t mind wearing national dress for a day or two, there are clean clothes and sandals at the beach villa.”

“I guess that settles it, then. I do need to make some phone calls, but then I’m at your disposal as long as needed.”

“His Highness would like me to arrange a visit tomorrow for you to travel north to Shams and the Shihuh tribal areas in the Musandam, and on Tuesday for lunch at our family camp. He insists that you experience proper Arab hospitality.” **** After exploring his temporary beach quarters and changing into the relaxing national dress, Lou takes a long walk on the beach, preparing the spiel he will give to Uncle Fabio and Meyer.

Looking at his watch, he decides to time his call to catch them just before the family’s traditional Sunday afternoon lunch at Mosca’s Restaurant in Avondale, just outside of New Orleans.

Rehearsing over and over, he lays out the plans and financials for the casino, their new interest and partnership in DOODS, the oilfield supply company, as well as his strategy for getting one of the companies associated with the family to join in the oil exploration concession in Ras al Khaimah.

Lou becomes apprehensive. Maybe I bit off more than I or the family can chew. But it is only a fleeting moment. Unlike his conservative classmates at Harvard, he was reared to “go big or go home.” That was the way the Falconi clan did everything— business, sports, and disagreements with other business families.

If he went too far, his uncles and Meyer would help to delicately walk back his commitments.

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Promptly at ten that evening, Ras Al Khaimah time, Lou’s international call rings in Louisiana. “Zio Fabio, how are you and Zia Maria?” he asks as dictated by Italian protocol.

Lou listens while his uncle explains with pride what each of the children and grandchildren are doing and which cousins or friends are having babies or getting married, and who is at lunch that Sunday.

“Si, Zio, tell my aunt and mother that yes, I will find a nice Italian girl, but first I have to make my mark in our business.

That’s why I’m calling—business.”

Before he could start his prepared speech, his uncle took over the conversation. “We’re all very pleased with what you have accomplished and are fully behind you.”

In the background, he could hear Meyer feeding bits of information to Uncle Fabio.

“Wait, what are you talking about? Let me tell you what has developed since our last discussions.”

“Si, we know everything. You think we’d send a fresh MBA out to the middle of the desert without cover? We always watch out for family. Majid and I have been speaking every day, and my good friend, Toufiq, has already called with the news. It seems the Ruler of Ras Al Khaimah has taken a shine to you.

Just be careful of his son Khalil. He’s a bad meatball. He has his eye on the throne and can spoil a well-prepared sauce.”

A bit crestfallen, Lou responds, “So you don’t trust me to make family decisions on my own yet? I really wanted to show you I had the family flair for business.”

“No, no, Luigi, don’t think that way. We gave you full latitude to do what you felt needed to be done, and you did it. If we didn’t support you, our friends Majid and Toufiq would not have agreed to your terms. Remember what Sun Tzu said, ‘If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles.’ We have always believed that you know who you are, a Falconi. Now we have seen that you have 95

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studied those you are doing business with before you commit to them.”

“So how do you know Toufiq?”

“He lives in Monte Carlo and is involved with Meyer in a casino there. This is where some of the income for the Ruler comes from. I’ve met Toufiq several times and he is a good man, just as Shaikh Saqr is.”

“You know Saqr also?”

“Not personally, but through Meyer and Toufiq, and I trust their opinions. Lunch is almost ready, and I must do my duty and lead grace. I’ll pass the phone to Meyer so you two can work out logistics for the legal work.”

“Ciao, Zio. Thank you for your trust and support. I have one request which I believe Majid did not discuss with you. I have a job for the Fiddler. It can really show how important our association with Dubai can be, and especially with the Ruler and Majid.”

“Let’s talk about this when you return next week.”

“Grazie, Zio.” “Luigi, before you go, remember to visit your cousin Frankie in Beirut. We would like to see him work with Nic Nicandro in Dubai. Frankie has almost finished his courses at Haigazian College in Beirut, and he and Nic’s boy, Nicky, will be heading to California to take a professional oilfield diving certification course. We want Frankie to work with Nic and run the offshore division of Marine Offshore Maintenance Services, and, of course, to keep an eye on Nic and the business.”

“I plan to spend a couple of days in Beirut to see Frankie, but my departure depends on finishing business here and what Meyer has planned for me with the lawyers in London.”

“Your Zia Maria is calling. She is the real boss. Ciao, here’s Meyer.”

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All of that stress and anxiety for nothing, Lou thinks as he waits on the line for Meyer.

“Luigi, my boy,” Meyer greets. “Good job. Let’s discuss the details.”

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Chapter 8 Monday with Mohammed Monday March 22, 1965

Lou awakens to the sound of the muezzin calling the faithful to morning prayers. Not an unpleasant chanting, but nonetheless startling for the infidels who are unfamiliar with the tenets of Islam. Praying five times a day is fine. But why is the first one so damn early?

Sitting up in bed, he feels great, physically and mentally, and ready to take on the world. After the lengthy conversation with Meyer and the kudos from Uncle Fabio, he experienced a stressfree night without the aid of any liquid anesthetic substances.

For all the amenities in the guest villa, alcohol isn’t one of them. It’s a dry venue. Although Shaikh Saqr allows “Demon Rum” to be served at his hotel and is amenable to profiting from gambling, he still embraces Muslim principles for himself and his tribe and tries to protect his people from the Western vices they are exposed to. A losing battle for Shaikh Saqr, Lou thinks, considering the smell on his son, Shaikh Khalil’s, breath at Sunday’s meeting, and watching the ruler’s other son Shaikh Hamed on Friday, enjoying his whiskey.

The Ruler’s advisor, Toufiq, made arrangements for Lou to be taken on a tour to the most northern parts of Ras Al Khaimah.

Shams is the last village before entering the Omani border of the Musandam, but since there are no border posts, his tour guide, a 98

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member of His Highness’s private guards, has been instructed to drive into the Hajar Mountains so Lou can see how the Shihuh tribes, indigenous to that area, exist in such barren landscape.

Lou looks at his watch and determines he should have plenty of time for a morning swim in the blue waters of the Arabian Gulf. Walking across the beach in front of his residence, he enjoys the massaging feel of the fine particles of sand squishing between his toes. The mild decline from where the high tide hit the beach to where the water depth would allow him to have a proper swim seemed to be at least a hundred-yard walk. Shallow water, easy offshore drilling.

Once the water hits his waist, he pushes his body upward from the carpet of silicon and swims parallel to the shoreline.

The water is refreshingly cool but not cold, even though it is considered winter. Finishing his laps, he makes the trek back towards his villa.

As he walks, the hair follicles over his skin blister into small goosebumps on his body. Are these just from the cool air on my wet body, or is it the fight or flight response? Everything has gone better than expected, but throughout his life, his instincts have been carefully honed and he had been taught to listen and trust his inner self. “I need to be prepared for anything,” he repeats several times as he enters the shower.

Putting on one of the dishdasha’s from the closet, he throws the headcloth over his shoulder and goes out to the patio to eat the simple breakfast that has been prepared by the Indian houseboy who takes care of the guesthouse. Sipping on his third cup of tea, he hears a vehicle approach and stop in front. Before he rises from the table, a giant of a man enters the patio and stands before Lou. The intruder wears the traditional white national robes, but a colorful scarf is swathed around his head, much like a wrapped towel after showering. The dress seems more indicative of inhabitants of Oman and Yemen, rather than the Arabian Gulf 99

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States. Around his waist hangs a large knife in a decorated leather sheath connected to a wide belt. In contradiction to the rest of his attire, he sports a pair of Ray-Ban aviator sunglasses, making it impossible for Lou to study his eyes.

Trust your instincts, is this my fight or flight moment?

With a smile, the intruder slowly removes his shades. “Good morning, sir. I’m Mohammed Al Qassim, your guide.”

Seeing the friendly sparkle in the invader’s eyes, the tension in Lou’s legs relax and he stands to greet Mohammed. “Very pleased to meet you,” he says, presenting his hand for a shake.

“I guess I was expecting someone else.”

“No, sir, just me and Abdulla in the Land Rover,” he replies, returning the handclasp with much more power than Lou offered.

“Would you or Abdulla like some tea before we leave?”

“No, thank you. We should get moving. We’re going to areas that we need to leave before dusk.” While he talks, he slowly approaches Lou and takes the ghutra from his shoulder and wraps it around his head, tucking the end in, to hold it in place.

“There, now you look like one of us northern tribesmen,” he says, smiling.

With a return grin, Lou asks, “Do I get one of these also?”

He points to the curved dagger.

Pulling the dagger from its scabbard, he shows it to Lou. “This is a khanjar, a traditional knife originating in Oman.

The tribes in the Musandam as well as some of our brothers here wear them. They’re mostly ceremonial, but they are still a defensive weapon. You see how the blade is curved like a hook?

That design allows for you to pull it up after entry for much greater body damage.” He demonstrates the technique with a midair gesture as he speaks.

“Fascinating. I’ve seen them in the souk. I need to buy one of these as a souvenir.”

“The elaborate silver and gold ones in the souks are for tourists, but maybe we can entice one of the tribesmen to sell 100

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you his, an authentic khanjar. I’ve had mine since age twelve when I became a man in my tribe. Some of the older men will sell theirs for the right price.”

As they exit the villa, Abdulla stands next to a 4-wheel drive vehicle. Doing his customary sizing-up, Lou estimates he isn’t quite as big as Mohammed but more intimidating, especially with the bandoleer loaded with shells and draped over his shoulders.

“As-salaamu aleekum,” Abdulla says, while ignoring Lou’s extended arm. He opens the passenger door and holds it while the guest enters, and then takes his position in the rear seat.

As Lou seats himself, his left knee bumps against the stock of what he recognizes as an AK-47. Abdulla reaches forward and retrieves the weapon, placing it next to himself in the backseat.

While Mohammed drives, Lou compliments him on his great English.

“When I just turned eighteen, I was chosen by Shaikh Saqr to go to Transjordan to train with what used to be called the Arab Legion, now the Jordanian army. The officers were all British, so learning English was a necessity. They sent me to the UK for six months to study English and other military training. I was privileged to know the great General John Bagot Glubb. We called him ‘Glubb Pasha’ out of respect.”

“I’ve read about him and his role in preparing the Jordanian military for independence, but most of all for his role in the first Arab-Israeli war. I recall the British officers were so dedicated to the legionnaires they trained, that when they were ordered to leave their troops and go back to Transjordan, all of them slipped back across the border to join their units. Quite an embarrassment for the British government.”

“Yes, that is true. That war was before my time, but the stories were still circulating when I arrived there in 1954. Glubb Pasha was retired by the King of Jordan in 1956, a year before my program was completed.”

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Feeling comfortable with his relationship with Mohammed, Lou asks, “Why the AK-47? During my boarding school days, we had a Reserve Officers Training Program where I actually learned how to handle one of these. This one looks like an antique, but they are tough and reliable.”

Mohammed looks at Lou. “So, you’re a fellow military man?”

A bond with Mohammed would be nice, Lou thinks, but honesty prevails. “My only experience was ROTC in high school. I realized then I wasn’t cut out to be a soldier—too many orders—so I pursued business instead.”

“Abdullah and I are members of the Rulers personal Security Forces. Like any leader, he has enemies. It’s our job to protect him. Unfortunately, the British still have control of the Trucial States, so we only get the obsolete weapons they give us or what we can buy from across the Gulf through the black market.

Unfortunately, until we are an independent country, we need British protection.”

“This coast seems like such a peaceful place.”

“There is a campaign by communist-supported terrorist organizations to expel the British from South Yemen, and it has spilled over to Oman. Well-equipped communist insurgents are infiltrating Oman from the Yemen. We’ve even had some incidents of them also entering Oman through the far northern parts of the Musandam.”

Lou’s first thought is how that conflict can affect business.

“Do we have to worry about that spreading to Ras al Khaimah and Dubai?”

“Not at all. The British are still our protectors and are doing a good job preparing our leaders for eventual statehood. The ruling Shaikhs know the days of tribal rivalry are over, and to survive they must join together. In just a few years, we will be one country.

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“We have British troops or advisors in this area and in Oman training ground troops and operating aircraft and heavy equipment. We’re in regular communications with them, and our Ruler’s provide young recruits for them to train. And don’t worry, that gun is with us just in case we need to shoot a goat for dinner,” he says with a grin. **** Once outside the town of Ras al Khaimah, Mohammed follows a well-packed earth and intermittent washboard stone track that relentlessly vibrates the vehicle like a jackhammer. Lou watches the hood of the Land Rover to see if the rivets holding the aluminum body together will pop. He now understands why they are the favored all-terrain vehicle in undeveloped environments.

Approaching a mountain outcrop that extends to the beach, Mohammed turns to his front seat passenger. “We can save thirty minutes if we drive around the rocks along the beach rather than over the rocky hill.”

Seeing that the tide was out and needing a respite from the bouncing, Lou encourages him to take the beach option.

“Hold on,” orders the driver, “I need to drive fast, without stopping.” Following the rule for soft sand beach driving, Mohammed hits the pedal, at one time accelerating to sixty mph.

After ten minutes, he turns back toward terra firma.

“Well done,” Lou compliments Mohammed on his driving skill.

The view of the coast is spectacular. Looking at the various shades of blue water contrasting with the steep rugged mountains that slope to meet the sandy beach or create breaking rocky outcrops in the water, Lou wonders how the geography could be so beautiful, yet inhospitable. “What a rough life these people must live,” he says aloud to himself.

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At the base of the rocky foothills, they approach Shams, a simple fishing village consisting of twenty or thirty square and rectangular palm fond houses with flat roofs.

Noticing Lou’s interest in the structures, Mohammed explains, “Those are called barasti houses. They allow ventilation in the summer for the fishermen who stay year-round and shelter for visiting tribesmen who come down from the hills to buy fish and other goods. Quite durable, even holding up during the few yearly rainstorms.”

“You mean people live in those mountains?”

“Yes, for hundreds of years. The Shaikhs like to come fishing, so we keep a boat here. We’ll drive to the jetty and cruise up the coast toward Buka so you can see some of the villages on the mountains that are visible from the sea.”

Maneuvering slowly between the barasti shelters, Mohammed reaches the far side of the village where a small stone jetty has been constructed. Inside the protected waters, boats bob up and down anchored by chains to blue green and red five-gallon plastic can floats, interspersed with several proper red and white buoys. A few fishermen, coming ashore with their morning catch, are greeted by a small group of women who sit in the shade of a rusted twenty-foot shipping container. Most wear an abaya, a black, loose-fitting, full-length robe and a burka, a black fabric mask which covers the face when they are in public. However, there are also a few other women and young girls with colorful dresses of red or blue without face covering, just headscarves.

Mohammed parks the Rover, exits the vehicle, and walks toward one of the fishermen. Instead of touching cheeks, the two men rub noses. After a brief conversation, Mohammed turns and waves for his passengers to join him.

“Yalla, we go,” he shouts.

Almost forgetting the silent Abdulla, Lou is startled by the command, “Come, we go,” that emanates from the backseat.

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Following Mohammed, the three men board a small wooden craft and row to a larger boat with the name Boston Whaler 16 emblazoned on the side in red. Twin fifty horsepower Mercury outboards hang from the transom.

Mohammed stands at the helm of the Whaler until the passengers and Abdulla’s AK-47 are positioned safely in the craft. He then slowly navigates out of the jetty. Reaching open water, he thrust the throttle forward and the Whaler hops across the rolling waves, almost bouncing Lou and Abdulla out of their seats.

After a short fifteen-minute ride, Mohammed pilots closer toward the shoreline, slows, and turns the helm to drift parallel to the beach. Reaching under the wheel console, he retrieves a pair of high-powered Zeiss military-issue binoculars.

“This area is inhabited by the Shihuh tribe,” he explains to Lou. “The desert tribes consider them to be untamed wild men.

Some of the more hospitable Shihuh live near Shams.”

Mohammed hands the field glasses to Lou. “If you look about halfway up the cliff, you can see some of their rock dwellings.”

Lou raises the glasses and presses them to his eyes. “That cliff face looks like it could be a near-vertical sixty-degree angle. I can see what look like footpaths. They can’t be more than one or two feet wide and some of the gaps have stone bridges spanning across the breaks.”

“These people are like the mountain goats they raise. They can walk anywhere. Now look further up. What do you see?”

“My God, there are stone structures at the very top!”

Those are their summer homes.” Mohammed chuckles.

“Most of the year they live in those single-story stone houses but, in the cooler weather, like now, they stay in their fishing villages, the less permanent structures built of coral walls and palm frond roofs that you’ve seen in Shams.”

“Are they nomads?”

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“Only between their summer and winter homes, which may span two tribal territories. Unlike the Bedouin from whom most Arabs in the UAE trace their roots, the Shihuh are not wanderers of the desert, but farmers and fishermen.”

Reaching toward Lou, Mohammed gently pulls down the glasses and instructs him to look at the shoreline and beach. “See the small handmade reed boats near the base of the cliff? That is what they used to fish from. At the end of their morning fishing, they carry their catch to their families in the mountains.”

“Where do they come from and what language do they speak?”

“Scholars say Shihuh speak no recorded language, but it is basically a dialect of Arabic that has evolved and mixed with some African, Persian, and even Portuguese words. Most of the men and young boys can read the Koran, so Arabic dominates.

The mixture of languages supports the theory that they may have migrated from Africa or across the Gulf, fleeing to the safety of this rock-strewn terrain, which was considered too rugged to be readily conquered. The most recent foreign invaders were the Portuguese, who established forts and watchtowers to protect their trade routes. The Shihuh are suspicious of visitors and in most cases are hostile toward them, but—” Mohammed gives a menacing smile directed at Lou. “Don’t worry, they no longer kill unwanted callers.”

Lou grins. “I guess living in caves or houses made of stones with palm roofs can make you a bit hostile. How in the hell do they survive?”

“They walk these rocky cliffs between the sea and their plateau homes to fish and raise crops on the highlands in the winter. The climate at that altitude is milder than the desert, and there are some flat plains on the mountaintops that allow them to grow oranges, bananas, and all kinds of vegetables. They also hunt leopards, rabbits, houbara bustards, and other game in the hills.”

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“Do they have weapons to hunt with and to defend themselves?”

“They have some old seven-shot Spencer and sixteen-shot Henry repeating rifles; many are surplus that your country sold to this part of the world after your civil war. Unfortunately, the insurgents have given modern weapons to the tribesmen who they consider loyal to their communist cause.

“Besides a khanjar, they also carry an axe, called a jerz, which has a small head about four inches across and a two-foot handle. They use it as a tool and as a weapon. It’s similar looking to the hatchet your American Indians carried.”

“Amazing!” is all Lou can say.

“Hold tight,” Mohammed instructs as he accelerates. “I want to take you to Bukha, another village about ten minutes up the coast. They have paths we can hike to see the agriculture on the plateau.”

He looks down at Lou’s sandals. “Think you can manage in those? You could just kick them off and walk barefooted like Abdulla and me,” he teases.

“I’ll be just fine.”

Arriving at a village almost the size of Shams, Mohammed steers the boat toward the shore and accelerates to provide enough momentum to drive the bow deep into the sandy beach.

Once firmly grounded, Abdulla hops over the side and walks in shallow water toward the bow where Mohammed hands him an anchor.

Mohammed raises the outboard engine on the stern to protect the props, grabs a shoulder bag with water and supplies, and steps onshore.

With his trusty automatic slung over one shoulder, Abdulla carries the anchor across the beach until he runs out of rope, and then embeds it into the soft sand.

It is midday nap time, and only one old villager who’s repairing his fishing net reluctantly acknowledges them. After 107

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the exchange of the obligatory “As-salaamu aleekum,” the two Ras al Khaimah tribesmen are accepted as neighbors and the greeting becomes more cordial.

As the three men talk, the old man looks directly at Lou, moving his head up and down as if giving his approval to the presence of the infidel.

Thanking the man with the normal shukron and ma’salama, Abdulla leads the way toward the walking path with Lou in the middle and Mohammed taking up the rear. Most of the early hike is an easy incline on small stones. About halfway up, the terrain transforms into a natural rock stairway, more difficult, yet not insurmountable. Lou is in pretty good shape but finds it challenging to keep up with the leader.

Reaching the flat plain at the top, they’re greeted by lush green alfalfa fields dotted with grazing goats and sheep. Around the alfalfa are high-altitude terraced fields with other crops.

“Good God,” exclaims Lou, “this is almost like the mythical Shangri-la, a garden of Eden. It’s beautiful. No wonder the natives don’t want visitors. Keep it a secret for themselves.”

“If you were here in the mid-summer heat, you wouldn’t think that way,” Mohammed says dryly.

Abdulla leads them to an orange tree, and they squat down to rest on the clearing under the crown. Mohammed reaches into his shoulder pack and retrieves canteens of water for his mates.

Refreshed, the trio spend the next hour walking around the fields and past several stone houses where peering eyes behind barely opened palm woven doors follow them.

Following his military training, Mohammed constantly scouts the higher rocks and the parameter of the small flat plateau.

“I think we should head back,” Mohammed says in the tone of a military order rather than a request.

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Retracing their steps, the sightseers walk across the field toward their entry point. Just as they reach the tree where they first rested, an abrupt “CRACK” and then another sends splinters in their direction.

Mohammed falls to the ground with blood flowing from his upper left arm, but protectively grabs Lou with his right hand and pulls him down with him. Abdulla instinctively hits the ground and removes his trusty AK from his shoulder, firing a barrage toward the direction of the hostile fire.

The orange tree trunk doesn’t offer much protection, but as long as they stay low, the three-foot-high alfalfa screens their exact locations.

Realizing that Mohammed has been shot, Lou removes his headgear and uses it to wrap a tourniquet around the wound.

The blood flow seems to abate, but Mohammed is losing a lot of blood.

As a true soldier, Mohammed ignores the wound and orders Lou to retrieve the backpack that fell about five feet from them.

Crawling on his belly, Lou grabs the strap of the pack and pulls it to toward Mohammed.

“Inside is a walkie talkie. Give it to me.”

Removing the Cobra handset, Lou asks, “Can I help?”

“They only understand Arabic,” Mohammed states, and then in no-nonsense military speak talks to the operator. Except for the English coordinates, Lou doesn’t understand the exchange.

Another shot rings out followed by an automatic salvo. The branch above their head splits, raining leaves over them.

Abdulla and Mohammed quickly exchange words. Lou understands the “la, la” (meaning “no, no”) that Mohammed yells toward his partner.

Undeterred, like a snake, Abdulla slithers on his belly through the tall grass hay and away from their protective tree.

About twenty yards away, he pops up and shoots toward the 109

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enemy. The deafening sound of a close barrage of bullets being fired mutes the distant popping of their attacker’s gunfire. Just as he expends his thirty-round magazine, Abdulla falls to the ground, blood gushing from a chest wound.

Without thinking, Lou follows Abdulla’s reptilelike trail to reach the prone figure. First, he checks the wound. Abdulla is conscious, so Lou consoles the soldier in English, assuring him he’ll be fine. Repeating his recent first aid skills, he removes Abdulla’s head cover and folds it into a thick square bandage, stuffing it under his dishdasha and bandolier to cover the wound, and applies pressure to stem the blood flow.

Next, he grabs the AK and pops out the magazine. Removing cartridges from the bandolier, he reloads and inserts it into the gun, then blindly fires toward his opponent. After each discharge he drops down to put pressure on Abdulla’s bandage and calmly talks to him.

“Bring me the gun. I can still use my right arm,” Mohammed yells.

“No, I can’t leave Abdulla.”

“Then I’ll come to you.”

With agonizing pain and a warrior’s determination, Mohammed crawls toward his comrades. When he reaches them, he immediately takes over attending to Abdulla, allowing Lou to concentrate on firing.

“Save the ammunition; just shoot occasional bursts. A helicopter and reinforcements are on their way from Ras Al Khaimah. We just need to buy some time.”

Doing as instructed, Lou keeps shooting. Before long, the “whup, whup,” sound of a helicopter is heard below the horizon.

Before the chopper is in sight Lou releases one last barrage.

Expecting return fire, he quickly drops to the ground. Instead of the repetitive report from an automatic, the sound of a single shot rings out, and then SILENCE! 110

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Bravery, or foolish abandon, prompts Lou to look up over his green screen. “What the hell!” A rough-looking gentleman walks toward them from the far side of the field.

Lou’s sense of observation becomes confused. The man isn’t dressed like the Shihuh he has already encountered, and he isn’t dressed like the Trucial States tribesmen. The man’s robes, once white, are stained gray and brown with dirt, and yellow from sweat, and his headcover is draped around his shoulders, allowing curly, wild flowing long black hair to hang below his neck. His disheveled salt and pepper beard is unruly like his hair.

Across his chest in an “X” configuration are bandoleers filled with long, wicked-looking bullets. Holding his gun high above his head, the visitor continues to advance.

“Mohammed, look at this,” Lou implores.

Raising his head, Mohammed also sees the vision, and yells at the approaching figure in some type of tribal language. With a shrill cry, the tribesman waves his long rifle over his head and continues toward their position.

“It’s okay,” Mohammed says. “This man is our friend. He said he killed one of the assailants with one shot, and the other headed down the back of the mountain toward Oman.”

With Lou’s help, Mohammed stands and walks toward their rescuer just as the military helicopter rises above the mountains and banks toward the orange tree. While Mohammed talks to their sharpshooting savior, Lou returns to attend Abdulla.

It doesn’t take long for the medic to disembark and first approach Mohammed, who shoos him away, directing him to Abdulla.

The corpsman takes over and inspects the wound. “He’ll be fine, thanks to your first aid to stop the blood flow.”

“What about Mohammed?” Lou asks.

“I haven’t tended to him yet, but if you put on the tourniquet I saw on his arm, you did a great job and I’m sure he’ll be fine also.”

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Satisfied that his patient would be okay, Lou joins Mohammed in greeting the pilots, the officer in charge, and another member of Mohammed’s security team.

“Mr. Falconi, I’m surprised, yet pleased, to see you.”

“Lieutenant Sweeney, not as pleased as I am. It’s been quite the day. What are you still doing in this area?”

“We were ordered stay in Ras Al Khaimah and fly you back to Dubai when you finished your business. I didn’t realize what kind of business you were doing,” he says with a broad smile.

Lou brushes back the loose hair from his brow. “This is not my normal workday,” he counters with a bigger smile.

While the medic and pilots load Abdulla onto the stretcher, Mohammed explains to the Lieutenant what has just transpired, giving Lou and the wild tribesman kudos for saving the day.

As Lieutenant Sweeney and the tribesman walk across the field to inspect the fallen foe, the medic bandages and slings Mohammed’s arm.

“I haven’t had time to thank you, Lou,” Mohammed says during the procedure. “I won’t forget what you did for Abdulla and for me. Should you ever need our help, we’ll be there for you.”

Lou, lost for words, bows his head in acknowledgement.

“By the way, our savior’s name is Safiuddin, meaning the pure one.”

“He’ll always be remembered as Shihuh Safi to me,” Lou says.

When the lieutenant and Shihuh Safi return, Sweeney carries a recent model AK-47 and a khanjar.

“Those communist rebels have some nice weapons,” the lieutenant says.

“That AK will be a nice addition to the Shaikh’s armory,” Lou comments.

“I’m afraid not,” responds Sweeney. “We try not to interfere in tribal justice, and the law here is basically ‘finders, keepers,’ 112

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so this belongs to Safiuddin. He got the kill; he keeps the gun and the assailant’s khanjar,” he says as he hands the weapons to the new owner.

“Gentlemen,” Lieutenant Sweeney says, “a team of the local Defense Force are now in the area, and we’ve received the all clear to return to base. We’re a bit crowded in the chopper with the stretcher and the insurgent’s body, so I’ll return with Lou to the boat.”

With an in-your-face attitude, Mohammed objects vehemently to Sweeney’s plan, insisting he is in good enough shape for the trek down the mountain. “We can leave my Land Rover at Shams for the Defense Forces to collect and pilot the boat all the way back to Ras al Khaimah to save time.”

“I’m all for that,” Lou says. “A much better ride on the water than that stony road.” **** The hike down the mountaintop to Buka village was an easy task, stopping only once for Lieutenant Sweeney to check Mohammed’s wound and change bandages.

Once they reach the beach, Lou notices that it and the village is void of people and activity. While Sweeney and Lou head toward the boat, Mohammed walks to one of the huts and rouses the village leader from his afternoon siesta. After talking for a few minutes, Mohammed joins them at the boat.

“Looks like the Bedouin telegraph has already reached here.”

He reports that the villagers are already aware of the firefight on the ridge. “These mountains have eyes and ears.”

As Sweeney collects the anchor, Lou and Mohammed strain to push the hull of the boat out of the packed sand toward the sea. After a couple of unsuccessful tries, Mohammed slumps to the sand with blood oozing through his robe. Seeing him drop, the lieutenant removes more bandages from the medical kit in his backpack and runs toward him.

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“Too much strain broke the clot that was stopping the bleeding,” he says. After tending the wound, he declares, “Change in plans. There’s a British medical unit in Khasab, fifteen minutes by boat, just around the tip of the Musandam.

We’ll save time and can get medical treatment there. I’ll radio ahead so they know we’re coming.”

Watching from their huts and seeing Mohammed collapse, several of the local men exit to assist pushing the boat toward the water. As the stern becomes buoyant, they help Mohammed aboard the still-grounded hull. Once he is settled, they give one last heave, freeing the bow. Sweeney and Lou wade into the shallow water and vault into the floating vessel.

While Mohammed explains to Sweeney where the keys are stowed, Lou coils the rope and places it and the anchor on the floor of the bow.

A skilled sailor as well as a soldier, the lieutenant, at first gently and then more rapidly, pilots them toward Khasab. Before reaching their destination, they rendezvous with a British coastal vessel that guides them to their dock at the secure naval base.

While the medical corpsman cleans and stitches Mohammed’s wound, Lou lies down on one of the other beds in the infirmary.

For the first time he’s able to think about events of the day and realizes he’s on a mental and physical high from the excitement of the gunfight. Doing his deep breathing exercises, he slowly releases the pent-up emotions and relaxes.

Mohammed, now occupying the bed next to him, is soon asleep. Lou closes his eyes and also dozes off.

Waking to noise outside the treatment room, Lou quietly leaves the hospital room looking for the “head.” Unless his bladder let loose during the firefight, he hasn’t pissed since breakfast. Finding the lavatory, he enters one of the stalls. Inside, he lifts the front of his dishdasha to his nose. Satisfied there is no urine smell, he relaxes and lets the stream flow.

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Leaving the bathroom, he detects the pleasing aroma of food. Meandering around the building he tracks the source and spots a “Mess Hall” sign with an arrow pointing to the end of the hall. Entering the double doors, he’s welcomed by Lieutenant Sweeney, who introduces him to several other British and Arab military officers. “Sorry to have abandoned you. I saw you dozing, and I thought you needed the rest. Come and have some of the best curry in the Musandam.”

“I just needed a brief break, but I could sure use some of that curry.”

Almost immediately, an orderly arranges a place setting while another server positions bowls with the aromatic Indian chicken curry, rice, mixed greens and a plate of nan bread before him. Lou gobbles the food with the same foolish abandon he displayed on the mountain, only stopping when the burning sensation in his throat demands water. Not wasting time pouring the coolant into his glass, he grabs the pitcher in front of him and drinks directly from it.

Sweeney and the other diners laugh while the orderly rushes over with a large glass of laban, a yogurt-type drink, to help quell the burning sensation. “My God,” Lou spits out, laughing between gulps of the white liquid. “You should have just shot me on the mountain.”

“Sorry, my good man. I forget that we Brits have a colonial history of eating Indian food. Let me get you something milder.”

“No, I’m fine with the rice and salad. What time will we be leaving for Ras Al Khaimah?”

“The pilot and medic will take Mohammed back just after the Mahgrib sunset prayers and will return to collect us early in the morning. I hope you won’t mind one of the beds in the infirmary.”

“Actually, I already tested one and found it quite comfortable.

Anything to do around here?”

“Would you like to take a gander of Khasab village?”

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**** As they walk through the sparsely populated village, Lou inquires of his tour guide, “Can we get a drink around here?”

“No pubs in this village. The residents here are conservative, and, even though drinking alcohol is not illegal in Oman, they don’t promote it,” Sweeney explains. “However, you’re in luck.

The royal navy still has their rum ration, or ‘tot,’ as we call it.

We’ll have a sundowner back at base.”

Sweeney continues his role as guide as they stroll through the village. Lifting his finger, he points toward the old fort.

“Khasab was built by the Portuguese early in the seventeenth century. This natural harbor gave shelter from rough seas and protected the traders who resupplied their ships with dates and water before sailing through the strait.

“The single-story buildings you see were built in the last few years by traders as residences and to store their goods inside the walls. There’s even a couple of small grocers and one restaurant, which consists of a gas burner, a table and four chairs, and limited refrigeration when the generator works. Surprisingly, the food is quite good.”

“Who can the traders sell goods to besides the tribesmen here?”

“Come, let me show you something.”

Picking up the pace, Sweeney heads to a small breakwater on the far side of the main dirt road. As they get closer, Lou counts twelve boats similar to the one Mohammed had. Except these were longer and all painted black, with twin Mercury 50-horsepower outboard engines. All of them had cargo stacked several feet above the gunwale and covered in black canvas. The weight of the bulky payload left little draft for shallow water.

“What are they loading?” Lou asks as they walk close to the break wall.

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“Televisions, air conditioners, all kinds of electronic goods, and, of course, watches, gold bars, foodstuffs, anything they can sell or trade.”

“So, they’re smugglers. Where is their market?”

“From here they concentrate on Iran. As far as we’re concerned, until they hit Iranian territorial waters, they are exporters. What happens once they cross that line is the business of the Iranian coast guard.

“The trader’s strategy is to wait until dark with all of the boats departing together in a convoy. If they’re spotted by the coast guard in Iranian water, the fleet splits up, each boat heading in a different direction, and then they rendezvous at their agreed destination. The idea is that the Iranians can only go after one of them.”

“So, basically, it’s like insurance. One gets caught but the other eleven make it through.”

“Yes, but it’s also an agreed sacrifice of one boat. The eleven that get through help cover the cost of the lost vessel and cargo.

We know from our intelligence sources that they already cut a deal with the Iranian Coast Guard so that they always capture one boat. The captain and crew keep some of the cargo and some goes to the customs department so they can show the government they are doing their job. The traders, the coast guard, and the Iranian customs—everyone—wins.”

“Hmm, pretty shrewd.”

“We understand the Iranians are ramping up their surveillance with more sophisticated radar and more frequent patrols with more coastal vessels, making it more difficult. But the traders are clever and will come up with another scheme.

“Shall we head back to base for that nightcap?”

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Chapter 9 Shaking Down the Shaikh Tuesday March 23, 1965

Soon after the morning call to prayer, a Defense Force helicopter lifts off from Khasab bound for Ras Al Khaimah.

Once in the air, Lou closes his eyes and tries to concentrate on the business he needs to conclude before heading back to Dubai later today.

Arriving at his guest villa, he promptly discards his reeking dishdasha and heads to the beach to purge his body of the accumulated grime. Once showered, he dresses in his normal business attire for a meeting with Toufiq. Standing in front of the mirror knotting his Bulgari tie, he realizes how restraining a Western suit and tie can be and envies the casual dress practices of the Gulf.

The houseboy taps on his door. “Sir, there is a call for you.”

Lou exits the bedroom and walks to the living room. Lifting the receiver, he hears the voice of Toufiq.

“Good morning,” he greets with a cheery demeanor. “Word of your adventures are the talk of the Ruler’s office and majlis.”

Before Lou can reply, Toufiq continues, “His Highness has plans for you today. I’ll arrange a car to collect you at ten a.m.”

Again, before he can respond, he hears the familiar “click” of the disconnecting line.

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“I guess that’s not an invite but an order. Sounds like my uncle Fabio,” he utters to himself.

At the precise time, the doorbell rings, and Lou exits the guest house. Instead of a Land Rover, a Mercedes 600 awaits him.

Reclining on the plush leather seat, Lou realizes that the events of the previous day have enhanced his standings with the ruling family. They owe me. Now is the time for me to capitalize on the situation.

Lou relaxes and mentally rehearses his pitch, not paying attention to the drive until he feels a thump. Looking up, he realizes the Merc has left the town road and is now on a sandy track. Even off-road, the luxury vehicle is a smooth ride for its passengers.

“Where are we going?” he inquires of the driver.

“I have been instructed to take you to His Highness’s hunting camp. Please do not be concerned. This automobile was specially built with oversize sand tires and special suspension, and 4-wheel drive, if needed.”

Lou silently nods and again closes his eyes. In just a few minutes, the driver announces, “We are here, sir.”

Pulling up to the campsite, Lou scans the area and counts six tents of different sizes with one considerably larger than the others. Around the perimeter of the camp are several all-terrain vehicles, some outfitted with special high chairs mounted in the open back, probably for a game spotter to sit. Grazing nearby are several camels with their two front feet hobbled together.

“Why are the camels’ feet tied together?” he asks the driver.

“That is to prevent them from roaming too far from camp, sir.”

Near the entrance of each tent are wooden stands, some with large birds perched atop, their heads covered in leather hoods. Noticing his passenger’s curiosity, the driver comments, “Hunting falcons, sir. They train and hunt with them during the 119

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winter months. The hoods keep them calm and from flying after prey.”

Exiting the car in the front of the largest tent, Lou sees a group of local men waiting to receive him. The first to greet him is none other than Mohammed, wearing his best national attire with his left arm in a sling.

Lifting his right arm to Lou’s shoulder, Mohammed pulls him close and offers the three-cheek greeting. “As-salaamu aleekum, sadiqqi,” he says, adding the word “friend” to the salutation.

“You look much better than you did yesterday,” Lou says cheerfully. “How is Abdulla?”

“He’s doing well, but he will need to stay in the hospital for a few more days.”

“Perhaps I can stop by and see him before I leave.”

“He was taken to the British military hospital in Sharjah. We won’t have time on this trip, but we’ll visit him when you return.

Come, His Highness is waiting to meet you.”

Mohammed takes Lou by the hand, and they walk to the entrance of the tent, where Mohammed kicks off his sandals.

Taking his cue from Mohammed, Lou also removes his shoes.

Inside, the sandy floor is covered in Middle Eastern style carpets.

The seating arrangements are similar to the majlis where Lou last met the Ruler, except this time, instead of sofas and chairs, there are large pillows with arabesque designs placed around the perimeter of the shelter. Seated at the far end of the tent are the Ruler, his son Shaikh Khalil on the right, and Toufiq on the left.

Lou notices that the Shaikh is dressed more casually without his ornate black bisht and appears comfortable and at home with his Bedouin surroundings.

With his hand pressing Lou’s back, Mohammed goads him to move forward, while he himself steps back and exits the tent, leaving the four men alone.

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As Lou approaches, Shaikh Saqr stands and walks forward to greet him, an honor that he later learns is usually reserved for special guests and dignitaries.

“As-salaamu aleekum, welcome to my desert home,” he says slowly, as if first thinking of the correct words to say in English.

Seeing the Ruler move his face forward, Lou prepares himself for the three-cheeker, then, unexpectedly, the Ruler uses the tribal greeting and rubs his nose against Lou’s nose, just as Mohammed did to the Shihuh tribesman.

Khalil and then Toufiq greet Lou with a traditional handshake.

“Please take my seat,” Khalil offers.

Before settling back on his cushion, Toufiq, dressed in an expensive Italian suit and tie, removes his jacket and places it on the pillow next to his. “Feel free to take off your jacket and tie if you wish. No need to be formal here.”

Lou is relieved to rid himself of his constrictive clothes and quickly sheds the suitcoat, but following the advisor’s example, only loosens his tie. Sitting cross-legged on the pillows seems a little odd at first, especially in such an important gathering, but he soon feels comfortable.

Before any further conversation, Khalil walks over to a nearby table and picks up the beak-shaped coffeepot and several demitasse cups. He approaches his father, pours the coffee, and offers it to him.

Saqr takes the cup and then turns to Lou, personally handing it to him. Feeling uncomfortable with this noble gesture, Lou waits until the Ruler receives his coffee before drinking the cardamon brew.

Once the coffee ritual is finished the Ruler turns toward Toufiq and converses with him in Arabic. Toufiq nods, and then addresses Lou. “His Highness would like to express his gratitude for what you did yesterday for Mohammed and Abdulla. They are two of his most trusted guards, and they and their families are very dear to him.”

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Lou looks into the eyes of the Ruler and senses his love and loyalty for his fellow tribesmen, reaffirming, just as he had perceived in their first meeting, that Saqr is a good man who wants to do what is best for his people.

“Please tell His Highness that I can only thank Allah for giving me the strength to carry out his will.”

The Ruler noticeably looks upwards at hearing the name of his Muslim God. He again converses with Toufiq.

“His Highness asks if there is anything you want or need for yourself or for the business we’ve previously agreed upon?”

“The honor of the friendship of you, your family, and your tribe is more than enough,” he cleverly replies. After a brief pause, he feels that this is his opportunity and continues. “In order for me to negotiate with the oil companies as we earlier discussed, it would be very helpful to have a document from the government stating that effective March 1, 1965, Lou Paolo Falconi has the exclusive rights to form a consortium to negotiate a concession for the petroleum exploration of all offshore areas of Ras Al Khaimah. The terms of the concession are to be agreed but shall include a signing bonus to the government of one million US dollars and a five percent overriding royalty on production. In addition, the Government of Ras Al Khaimah is to receive a fifty percent share of net profits after cost recovery by the consortium.”

A brief silence ensues. “This would give me credibility and the Government authority to negotiate with the companies we intend to approach.”

Watching the Ruler as his request is translated, he sees his face beam with a jubilant smile when Toufiq switches from Arabic to English, saying the words one million dollars and the percentages.

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Khalil’s tone amplifies several times, as if the two are arguing.

When Lou hears Khalil say the words sixty percent in English, he is sure the Crown Prince is trying to negotiate the government’s share upwards.

With a flick of his hand, Shaikh Saqr silences Khalil, and Toufiq again takes over. “His Highness agrees that you’ll have what you request before you leave for Dubai.”

Once Toufiq finishes, Shaikh Saqr stands. “Come,” he says pleasantly in English as he grasps Lou’s left hand in his right hand, and they leave the tent together as Toufiq follows and an obviously angry Khalil walks in the opposite direction. **** For the next hour, Shaikh Saqr escorts Lou around the hunting camp. With Toufiq translating, he explains Bedouin culture and etiquette to his guest.

“According to our cultural codes and religious principles, strangers and visitors are always welcomed to our camp. Food, water, and camel or goat milk are always offered to a visitor, even if it means the host or his family will go without.

“Our life is centered around our religion, giving us a code for daily living as well as spiritual solace. We pray five times a day, give financial help to those in need, and do not drink or eat during daylight hours in the holy month of Ramadan.”

“What about the summer when it’s over one hundred degrees?” Lou directs his question to Toufiq who conveys it in Arabic.

“We suffer,” is the simple translated reply from Saqr. “We need to feel the pain of thirst and hunger, so we understand how those who don’t have enough to eat or drink feel.

“God provides, but sometimes requires help to take care of our fellow man. The oryx, gazelle, wolves, and desert fox are not as plentiful as before, some almost extinct. So, we must assist the Bedou, some who still live out here, to adjust to village 123

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and city life, finding work, learning skills and most important, providing education for their children.”

“Your boss is an amazing man,” Lou says to Toufiq. “He has the innate skills and knowledge of the Bedouin, yet he’s a visionary and also practical enough to know he must change and guide his people to adapt also.”

“Yes, and as you’ve discovered, he will do what is needed financially to make his dreams for Ras Al Khaimah happen.”

With a look of curiosity, the Ruler speaks to Toufiq, who immediately summarizes his conversation with Lou. Then, with a serious look, he moves his head in agreement. Immediately after speaking with Toufiq, the Ruler takes the hand of a boy who appears to be in his early teens and walks toward one of the falcon perches.

“That young man with His Highness is his son Shaikh Saud,” explains Toufiq. “He’s a favorite of the Ruler, smart as a whip and destined for university in the UK or USA. He was to prepare for the Royal Military Academy Sandhurst, but Saud is more interested in economics and international business.”

Remembering his Uncle Fabio’s comment about Shaikh Khalil being a bad meatball, Lou asks, “Any chance Saud will become the ruler someday?”

“Not as long as Shaikh Khalil keeps in line with his father’s plans and wishes. I sometimes wonder how long it will take before he goes rogue.”

The falcon trainer, wearing a leather glove that extends from the wrist of his left hand and covering most of his forearm, approaches the bird.

“That glove or gauntlet is called qufaz alsaqr ‘aw alqufaaz in Arabic,” explains Toufiq. “These birds are all Peregrine falcons with very sharp and strong talons. The glove protects the wrist of the handler.”

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Like an enthused schoolboy, Lou is fascinated by the discourse. As they watch, the falconer puts his arm next to the perch and the bird steps onto his gauntlet.

“I was told the hood keeps the bird calm and from flying after prey. What is it called?”

“It’s known as a burqa or boshiya in Arabic.”

“I thought a burqa was the face cover local women wore?”

“Ha, ha. You’re right. Same word. They even look similar.

The hood is essential for training as the bird must bond with his master, who is his source of food. The trainers keep their birds perched close to them to reinforce that bond, even sleeping next to them. An improperly trained bird may fly off, never to return—an expensive loss for the owner.”

“What would a bird like this one cost?” asks Lou. “About ten thousand dollars, but some can sell for millions depending on the breed. Peregrines are considered to be the perfect hunting falcon, and they are the easiest to train.”

The group of onlookers follow the falconer away from the tents into an empty expanse of sand dunes and watch intently as he ties a dead quail to the end of a rope. As soon as the leather hood covering is lifted, the bird smells the game, and like a rocket, takes flight. As the Peregrine rises over the dune, the trainer loops his lure in various rhythmic patterns, like a child twirling a Maypole ribbon, enticing the bird. And then, like David slinging Goliath, he flings the bait skywards. In midair, the falcon snags the quail, landing on the sand where it begins ripping feathers from the meat with its powerful beak, while the trainer receives accolades from his fellow instructors and visitors.

“Wow, what an experience,” exclaims Lou. “Will they attack a human?”

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“They are not affectionate animals and accidents have happened, and if you offered them an ear or nose, they probably wouldn’t refuse it. They especially like eyes,” Toufiq teases. **** After a required lunch, Toufiq and Lou excuse themselves and retreat to another tent to write the wording of the promised document.

“Let me explain the process, Lou. To make this official and legal, we’ll write it in English on the left, and in a parallel column an Arabic translation will be on the right. His Highness will sign both sides.”

Within an hour, the English wording was agreed. “We’ll return to town with your driver and drop you at the guest house while I go to my office and undertake the translation and typing.”

“Should I go say goodbye to Shaikh Saqr?”

“No need. He’s resting now before the afternoon Asr prayers.”

Exiting the tent, the duo head toward the Mercedes that Lou arrived in.

Before entering the car, Lou hears someone calling, “Mr. Lou, Mr. Lou.” Turning, he sees, Mohammed quickly walking toward him.

“I have something for you, a gift from Abdulla and me.”

Removing the brown paper wrapping, Lou is stunned to see the khanjar that Shihuh Safi took as a trophy from the rebel he shot in the Musandam.

Toufiq watches the presentation with a big smile.

Almost at a loss for words, Lou exclaims, “How did you get this?”

“We have our ways. I told you we would get an authentic one for you.” Showing his English language skills, he continues, “This one even has a provenance—as well as a great story behind it. May it keep you safe.”

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A wet-eyed Lou steps in and hugs Mohammed, taking care not to squeeze his wounded arm. “Thank you, my friend, and please thank Abdulla for me. I hope to see you both soon.”

Lou and Toufiq enter their transport and discuss details of the casino project as they ride back to town.

Arriving at the guest house, Lou begins to exit the luxury sedan when Toufiq reaches for his arm and prods him back into car.

“This letter you requested is leading to some internal discord between His Highness and his son Khalil. The only way to diffuse this is for you to organize this consortium as soon as possible and get the concession signed. There will be dissention, but the Ruler can overcome it if you fulfill your end of the deal—and do it quickly.”

Respectfully, Lou extends his hand, locking the two men in a firm clasp. “Mr. Abdul Kazim, in case I don’t see you before I leave, thank you for all your help. I’ll be back in the USA for several weeks, but please assure the Ruler that when I return it will be to immediately kick off the casino project and move forward on the oil concession. With this letter, I know my family can move quickly in getting a commitment. I look forward to working with you.”

“And I, you. You’ve made some big promises, and now you must deliver. Fi’aman-allah, Go with God. The helicopter needs to return to base in Sharjah before dark, so they’ll collect you about four to return you to your hotel in Dubai.” **** Lou retreats to his room but is too anxious to nap. The prospect of having such a letter signed by the Ruler motivates his imagination. “Hell, with that kind of Royal approval, we could get one of the big companies onboard,” he convinces himself.

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if…. A myriad of negative thoughts muddles his mind. Hearing the call for prayers, he looks at his watch. Three o’clock. One hour before he leaves. Where’s my letter?

Rather than let the stress continue to stimulate destructive thoughts, Lou sheds his business clothes and heads to the beach for a swim and to invigorate his psyche to a positive mode.

Back in the villa, he showers, packs, and then seeks out the houseboy to ask if anything has been delivered for him.

“No, sir,” is his reply. “Is there anything I can prepare for your departure?”

Hearing the sound of his ride landing on the pad in front of the villa, he responds with a subdued tone, “I’m fine, thank you.

Just take my bag to the foyer.”

Grasping his briefcase, he disappointedly walks toward the noisy helicopter. The copilot’s voice, drowned out by the deafening “thump, thump, thump” of the engines forces him to silently mime the now familiar safety instructions.

No letter. It was worth the try. Buckling up for his trip, a dejected Lou puts on his earphones.

The “Welcome aboard,” from the pilot startles Lou. Straining to turn his body to face his passenger, the pilot holds a large white envelope with Arabic writing in red letters on the outside.

“Before I forget,” he says as he reaches across the console controls and hands the package to the backseat, “the Ruler’s office asked me to give this to you.”

With a jubilant smile, Lou reaches forward and takes the flat parcel, holding it against his chest with both arms, like embracing a newborn. Closing his eyes, his body melts into his seat, exorcising his physical and mental pent-up anxiety. Once his heartbeat relaxes to his normal sixty beats, he takes a deep breath and opens the sealed packet. Retrieving a parchment folder, he flips it open to find a beautiful envelope embossed with “Office of His Highness” in Arabic and English on the front. Lifting the unsealed flap, he removes the letter. Typed on 128

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heavy white linen paper is the artful-looking columns of English and Arabic script. Immediately, he scans down to the bottom and sees the adjacent signatures of “Shaikh Saqr bin Mohammed Al Qassimi” at the end of each column.

“This is my baby, the key to the kingdom,” Lou utters to his devilish alter ego.

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Chapter 10 The Chronicle of Rocky Early evening Tuesday, March 23, 1965

Back in his Dubai hotel, juggling thoughts of business and the excitement of the last few days, Lou lifts his arm and checks his watch. Six p.m. May as well have a drink, order a room service dinner, and try to do some work.

Sitting at the small desk, he begins outlining a “Heads of Terms” for the casino agreement to use as a guide for the lawyers in London and Houston. He decides to defer doing anything about the documents for the oil exploration, as they will need to be prepared by whichever oil company his family entices to join the consortium.

The room air conditioning makes the tedious work more tolerable, a welcome respite from the humidity of the Gulf coast.

Taking a break from the monotonous writing, Lou stretches his arms upward, then with fingers entwined, brings his hands down to cradle the back of his head. Tilting back in his chair, he imagines his future. When I build my house here it will be on the beach with ceiling fans like the guest villa on the beach in Ras al Khaimah, so I can open the windows to allow the sea breeze and fans to cool it in the winter. He continues his thought with a snicker. Of course, I’ll need a/c for the other nine months.

A knock at the door ends his daydream. While the room service waiter sets up his dinner table, Lou reaches for the phone and dials the operator. “Good evening. Can you schedule 130

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an international call to the United States for me at nine p.m.?”

Eager to share his success with Uncle Fabio, he schedules the call for noon, New Orleans time, when his uncle and some of the family and friends will be starting their afternoon lunchtime card game. **** After finishing dinner, he returns to the task at hand. Although he is expecting a call, he is nonetheless jarred from his work by the shrill ring from the rugged black telephone. Moving to the bed, he lays his notes across the bedcover, and then reaches for the bulky handset on the bedstand.

Without the normal introduction from the hotel operator, he immediately hears the cacophony of voices, banging glasses, and sliding chairs. “Do you call or raise?” his father Vincent prods one of the cardplayers. He could almost smell the mixture of beer, wine, and cigar smoke permeating through the copper wire.

“Who’s dis and wadda you want?”

“Is that you, Jimmy?” Lou asks, referring to his Uncle Fabio’s longtime friend and consular, Vincenzo (Jimmy) Campo.

“Luigi, how ya doing?” replies Jimmy. “Sounds like you a million miles away. I suppose ya wanna talk to your ol’ man?”

“If Zio Fabio is free, let me talk to him first privately, if he can break from the table.”

“Hey Fabio–Fabio.” he yells again. Finally in desperation, Vincent yells, “Hey, Rocky, it’s the kid in Arabia.”

Hearing the nickname given to his uncle many years ago, Lou remembers being indoctrinated at a very young age that the moniker was a term of endearment, reserved for special relatives and friends. His mother told him, “You must earn his trust and loyalty before you have the right to call your uncle Rocky. He’ll let you know when that is. Until then, out of respect, you always call him Uncle or Zio.” 131

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“Luigi, glad you called. I had a shitty hand and needed an excuse to fold.”

“Hello, Zio, but are you winning?”

“I never lose. Just ask your dad and uncles,” he says with a laugh. “How about you? Are you winning?”

“I believe we are,” he replies, stressing the “we,” and then continues to tell him of his experiences during the last few days that culminated in receiving the sacred letter. “Do you know which companies we can approach?”

“That letter changes the game. I’ll talk to the Senator; he’ll have some ideas. What’s your schedule for getting back to NOLA?” “I’m planning to leave tomorrow night and spend a relaxing weekend with Cousin Frankie in Beirut and a visit to the Casino du Liban. Then stop in London for meetings with banks and lawyers. Hopefully, I’ll be back in New Orleans by the following Thursday.”

“What about Majid? How’s his pulse?”

“I have a lunch meeting with him tomorrow before I leave here. I’ll brief you when I get to my hotel in Beirut.”

After finishing their business, Lou asks, “Can you put my father on the line?” It’s a brief but emotional exchange, inquiring about momma and family. Even as adults, the feminine side of the machismo Italian male reveals itself when talking about momma. **** Wednesday March 24, 1965

With the help of a few drinks and a couple of pink pills, Lou is able to overcome his anxiety and excitement and has a full night’s sleep, sleeping in until late in the morning.

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At lunch time, he heads for the lobby to wait for his ride to Majid bin Jabir’s. Recognizing the blue Chevrolet Impala that pulls up to the entrance, he walks to the car. Instead of one of the familiar drivers, Tim Johnson sits behind the wheel.

“Doing chauffer duty today, Tim?” Lou goads as he gets in the car.

“Hell, I’ll do anything to make a buck. Chandran is off running errands, so I volunteered to drop you at bin Jabir’s.”

“Very kind of you.”

Arriving at the villa, Tim summons the guard with the usual beep of his horn. Almost immediately, Abdul opens the gates, allowing them entry. As Lou exits the vehicle, Abdul’s large moustache stretches across his face in a big smile of recognition.

Approaching the guest, Lou anticipates what’s coming and switches the leather briefcase to his left hand, allowing the Turk to grasp his right hand, repeating the greeting ritual from his first visit.

With a wave, Tim backs out of the drive, leaving Abdul to guide Lou to the house where he is greeted at the door by Iskar.

“Welcome. It appears that your trip to Ras Al Khaimah was quite successful.”

“Ha, ha, it sounds like the Bedouin telegraph is working well,” Lou responds. “I need to check my phone to see if it’s bugged.”

With a serious face, Iskar looks at the lunch guest. “No, it’s clean. Come, Majid is waiting in the dining room.”

Lou walks toward his host and greets Mr. bin Jabir, both simultaneously giving the traditional three-cheek greeting.

Majid clasps Lou’s hand and walks to a sofa along the wall.

“Come, let’s talk a few minutes before we eat.” For the next half hour, Majid and Lou discuss the events in Ras Al Khaimah.

Lifting the briefcase to his knees, Lou opens it, and, as if holding a priceless relic, delicately hands the document to Majid.

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Scanning the letter, he looks up. “Hmm, there are some differences in the Arabic translation, but nothing substantive.

The rule of law here is that the Arabic version of any agreement or contract supersedes the English or other languages in the case of a dispute.”

“Thank you. I’ll definitely remember that.”

Iskar stands and takes the letter from Majid. “I’ll make a copy of this for our files,” and leaves the room, almost as if his departure had been orchestrated.

With the two men alone, Majid takes command of the conversation. “Two different British Virgin Islands companies have been established to be your partners in the Ras al Khaimah oil petroleum consortium. One to cover the interests of the Dubai partners and one to cover the interests of the Ras Al Khaimah partners. Iskar will provide the details of these companies to you. I spoke to your Uncle Rocky, and he will fax me a list of oil companies to be considered. I need to vet these before we decide who to invite as our lead partner.”

Lou bites down on his tongue, trying not to show the surprise on his face at hearing his uncle’s nickname for the second time in one day. Regaining his composure, he carries on the conversation. “What about the casino?”

“I was getting to that,” Majid responds abruptly, offended by the verbal intrusion.

“Forgive me. I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Lou contritely replies in a mea culpa tone.

“My interest in the partnership will be held by the holding company that owns the Casino du Liban in Beirut. They can help with Arabic/English speaking staff from Beirut and other support services. Since you will be in Beirut this weekend, you can meet with Albert Abuzian to get the information needed for these agreements. Iskar will get his contact information to you.”

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Lou wonders about the phone tap he and Iskar joked about.

How do these people seem to know all about Uncle Fabio, about my moves and business?

“By the way,” Majid continues, “I’ve already spoken to Meyer about this, and he agrees. He and Abuzian are longtime friends and business associates, so he is comfortable with any arrangements you make in Beirut.”

Re-entering the room, Iskar hands the original letter from Shaikh Saqr to Lou, who appropriates it to the safety of his briefcase. “Come, lunch is served,” he prompts.

Lou, briefcase in hand, follows Iskar and Majid to the dining table.

Conversation at lunch is non-business casual, until Majid asks, “Will Senator Russel Long run for re-election next year?”

“Do you know the Senator?” Lou asks, answering a question with a question, wondering again if his phone calls are recorded.

“Your uncle arranged for me to meet him in London a couple of times. I understand that Senator Russell’s father, Senator Huey Long, and his Uncle Earl, the past Governor of Louisiana, were close friends of your Uncle Fabio.”

“That was before my time, but the senator and his brother Governor Earl Long have been instrumental in helping develop our family business in vending and gaming machines in Louisiana. Uncle Fabio has been close to the family, especially his son Senator Russel Long.”

Almost as if he could read Lou’s mind, Majid continues, “I’ve been friends with your uncle for a long time. I think today’s reference to him as ‘Rocky’ was a Freudian slip on my part. I’ve never called him that directly, but we’re close enough friends that I believe I could. Is the origin of the nickname a family secret, or can you tell me?”

Lou enjoys hearing and telling family stories, and smiles as he spins the tale of Rocky Falconi. “It’s a well-known folktale in 135

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New Orleans and, like any legend, changes over time. It’s retold at family gatherings when the mood is right, but never when Uncle Fabio is present.

“As I understand the saga, Zio Fabio’s wife, my Zia Maria, owned a small restaurant in a little storefront just off Bourbon Street. Maria, the culinary expert, provided the recipes, prepared the menus, and acted as the hostess and cashier. Officially, Fabio was supposed to be the cook, but the restaurant and that role are a cover for his other business ventures, and the place became a hangout for the family.

“One evening, Uncle Fabio was sitting at a back table when a couple of young GIs in uniform came in for a meal. The war was just over, and lots of soldiers were coming home, many through the New Orleans port. As a gesture of gratitude for their military service, Fabio sent them a bottle of Chianti. They finished the bottle with their meal and ordered a second, becoming a bit rowdier with every glass. One of the soldiers started flirting with my Aunt Maria and the other waitress, saying things that Uncle Fabio found offensive. Uncle Fabio got up from his table, walked up to the young soldier, and asked him to apologize to the ladies. My uncle was a small man, and standing next to the seated soldier, they were almost just eye to eye. The soldier made a fatal mistake and said to him, ‘Who’s gonna make me, little man?’

“Uncle Fabio lost it, grabbed the plate in front of the GI, smashed it into his head, and then began beating on his face.

Aunt Maria, the waitress, and the second soldier pulled my uncle away, and Aunt Maria called for an ambulance. After cleaning the sauce and pieces of spaghetti from his ears, nostrils, and top of his head, the attendants found the damage to the young man was concentrated on the long straight protrusion that once gave the soldier his Romanesque profile. He now had the look of a pathetic pugilist. Turns out, that’s just what he was. My family 136

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found out from the soldier’s friend that the man’s name was Rocco Francis Marchegiano. A few years later, he became known as Rocky Marciano, one of the greatest heavyweight boxers of the 1950s. It was Uncle Fabio who gave him that broken nose persona that carried Marciano to become heavyweight champ of the world.”

“Did your uncle ever meet Marciano again?” Iskar asks.

“Actually, he did. Apparently, Marciano had friends in the labor unions. One of them was Lew Ferrell or “cock-eyed” Louie, whose real name was Louis Thomas Fratto. Uncle Fabio was in Vegas and ran into Lew at a restaurant. Lew happened to be sitting with Marciano and introduced him. Rocky recognized my uncle, but by then he knew of his reputation and listened politely as Uncle Fabio praised the boxer and all he had accomplished for the Italian American communities. Neither of them mentioned the restaurant incident. Marciano later sent two tickets to Uncle Fabio for his bout in 1951 with Joe Louis in Madison Square Gardens. In the envelope with the tickets was a note addressed to ‘the real Rocky,’ apologizing for his behavior years ago. Uncle Fabio said that of all the men he had beaten up over the years, the only one he regretted was Marciano, and even wrote a letter to tell him.

“After that, when Uncle Fabio got really angry, close friends and family would call him Rocky, or say things like, ‘Looks like Fabio is going Rocky.’ That was the cue for him to cool down.”

Chuckling, Lou finishes, “I guess if there is a lesson to be learned from the tale, never call Fabio ‘little man.’”

The chronicle of Rocky and lunch completed, the three men sat at the table in silence.

“What time is your flight?” Iskar inquires.

“It’s scheduled for ten p.m., but you know Middle East Airlines. It could be anytime.”

“Good,” Majid says, “you’ll have time to join me this evening.

I want to introduce you to the Dubai Ruler, His Highness Shaikh 137

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Rashid. Meet me here at seven and we’ll go together. Bring your luggage, and I’ll have my driver take you to the airport after the meeting.” Majid stands. “Excuse me, I have business to attend to.” He departs the room, leaving Iskar and Lou alone.

“Let me get the BVI company documents for you.” Iskar also leaves the room.

Alone, Lou closes his eyes and enters his “Walter Mitty” world, the parallel dimension he uses to create the future he wants.

Iskar returns and addresses Lou, “Tim will be here in ten minutes to collect you. We three need to meet briefly about your new interest in Dubai Offshore Oil Drilling Supply company.

This seems to be an opportune time.”

Iskar hands two large manilla envelopes to Lou. “These are the BVI documents you need for your London legal team, and here is Albert Abuzian’s home and office phone numbers as well as his residence address. His office is in the casino, so I imagine you will meet there.”

Killing time, the two partners talk about Lou’s interest in scuba diving and love of the sea and discuss his cousin Frankie’s future training as a professional diver.

“That will be a great skill to have out here,” Iskar remarks.

“In the days of the pearl diving industry here and before Scuba tanks, divers would free-dive and could stay under water for up to seven minutes on one breath. Spending a season pearling was a terrible way to earn a living. When the Japanese developed and commercialized the cultured pearl, it killed the industry.

Probably for the best. Trading across the Gulf took over as the favored way to make a living.”

“Hubba, hubba hubba,” followed by giggles and laughs emanating from the kitchen.

“Just Tim,” Iskar remarks. “The staff love him, and he always comes in through the kitchen of Majid’s villa so he can joke with them.”

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Entering the sitting room, Tim greets the two businessmen.

“Hey, you Fookie Wookies, what’s happening?”

“Tim, join us. We have some documents to be signed by Lou regarding his interest in DOODS.” Sitting at the end of the dining table, Iskar pulls out the papers, written only in Arabic. “Sign on the pages marked with the yellow tab,” Iskar orders.

Lou takes the Mont Blanc pen from inside his jacket pocket, removes the cap, and proceeds to lift the first page to sign.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Tim says before the first ink is dropped.

“Do you read Arabic? Do you know what you’re signing? Didn’t that Harvard MBA teach you about not trusting anyone?”

“No, but my family did. You’re right. What am I signing?”

Iskar proceeds to explain that the documents are an agreement to transfer fifty percent of the company to Lou, as the representative of his family, as well as the bureaucratic forms to revise the business license and other permits required by the Municipal government. “DOODS operates with the Ruler’s decree, but we still have to follow the legal formalities.”

Tim laughs. “Shit, I should’ve let you sign. We would’ve had rights to your first-born male child. Haw, haw haw.”

Ignoring the joke, Iskar continues, “Tim and I will manage the company, as before, but your role will be to direct business opportunities our way,” he says. “All our equipment and staff are at your disposal. Should you need anything, just let Tim know. We may also need the diving skills of your cousin and you in the future.”

With the documents signed, Tim and Lou depart.

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Chapter 11 Meeting The King Of Kings Wednesday evening March 24, 1965

Just before seven, Tim’s driver Chandran delivers Lou to Majid’s villa. Lou wears a dark blue business blazer with a silk shirt open at the collar, light gray casual slacks, and a pair of casual Ferragamo loafers—easy to kick off at the door.

Before Lou enters the villa, Majid, in national dress, exits just as a black Rolls Royce pulls up in the drive. “Come, my driver will take us.”

His Highness has just moved into his new palace in Zabeel, only a few minutes from there. Heading west, they soon leave the tarmac road and drive across an expanse of sabkha and sand. “See the large blue and white building ahead?” Majid points from the rear seat to the view directly in front of them.

“Zabeel Palace. Originally it was a compound of three small buildings constructed in the late 1950s. Two years ago, the Ruler commissioned a British construction firm to build a new palace that linked the original buildings into one complex.

Rashid is a man of simple tastes, not ostentatious nor prone to material things. You’ll find that his majlis and offices reflect his simplicity.”

“Where did he live before?”

“At his father’s, Shaikh Saeed Al Maktoum’s family house.

It’s located along the Dubai Creek in the Al Shindagha area. Not far from the fish and vegetable markets.”

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Stopping at the main entrance, a domed-top portico with two large wooden doors flanked by smaller ones on each side, the men exit the Rolls, and bin Jabir leads the way up the marble stairs into the palace and down a long passageway. The unairconditioned halls are cool, as if designed to allow the desert breezes to flow through. No one can appreciate it more than the rifle-bearing guards lining the hall and standing at attention as the two men passed.

Two guards swing a pair of barrel-vaulted doors open, revealing a large rectangle room with a high domed ceiling.

Inside the door, Lou starts to kick off his shoes, but is stopped

by Majid. “No need for that.”

The room is similar to the Ras Al Khaimah Ruler’s Office majlis, void of seating or other furniture in the middle, but the perimeter walls are lined with decorative chairs and sofas, interspersed with coffee tables. However, this time the chairs are occupied by locals and a sprinkling of Westerners, drinking cups of brew from the pelican-beaked copper pots used by the coffee servers, all of them waiting their turn to talk business with Shaikh Rashid bin Saeed Al Maktoum.

As they enter the room, His Highness looks up from his ornate chair and acknowledges their arrival with a smile and brief head bow.

Majid instructs Lou to take a seat on one of the side chairs while he continues walking toward the Shaikh. As Majid approaches, the Ruler waves the Arab sitting beside him away and motions for Majid to sit in the now empty chair.

Watching the Ruler conduct business, Lou does his normal persona evaluation, assessing the man’s character from his behavior, actions, and facial expressions. Focusing his energy on the tribal leader, he senses that something is different about this man. Although he projects nobility` like Shaikh Saqr, Rashid has an added aura. Regal—that is it. He has a noble vibe, one of an honest and honorable man. Physically, he is tall and lanky, 141

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not handsome, but with a weathered face he worn as a badge of honor displaying his closeness with his Bedouin traditions and skills. He ascertains that he is a man straddling two worlds, his oneness with his desert surroundings and his desire to learn all he can about the changes he knows are coming in the modern world so he can prepare his tribe to adapt.

He’s like the noble camel. The tall, gangling animal walks with a slow royal stride, head held high. And the animal’s face takes on an almost grandiose appearance. The camel’s most important trait is its ability to thrive and survive in the harshest conditions. Rashid will also adapt to the onslaught of Western culture and petrodollar wealth.

Lou summarizes his first-opinion assessment of Shaikh Rashid to be a man who appears rough and uncommon at first appearance but is a benevolent ruler whose people love him and rely upon him to survive and thrive.

A local gentleman carrying a notebook approaches Lou and asks him to follow, directing him to the front of the crowd, past several Arab and Western petitioners. Instead of being instructed to sit next to the Ruler, Rashid stands and, with a brisk stride, leads Lou and Majid to a door at the back of the majlis.

The room is a private office with a round meeting table and six, deep-cushioned, leather chairs. Once the three men are inside and the door is closed, Rashid turns to Lou and takes his hand, giving it a Western-style shake. “As-salaamu aleekum, welcome to Dubai,” he greets in both Arabic and English, and then reverts to his native language with Majid translating.

“I have heard many special things about your visit here and the business ventures you have brought to us. I wish to thank you and your family. Word of your bravery in the Musandam has been carried to us also. We are all grateful for your courage.”

Talking slowly to make sure his words are understood by Majid, Lou replies, “Thank you, your Highness. I’m looking forward to spending more time here and developing our 142

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businesses for the benefit of you and your people.”

“Ahlan, you are most welcome here. We’ll soon have you speaking Arabic and, who knows, maybe we’ll make a good Muslim out of you,” he says with a big grin.

After a few more exchanges of pleasantries, Rashid directs him to sit at the conference table between him and Majid.

While they talk, a cup of Arabic coffee is put before Lou. This time, knowing the appropriate protocol, he drinks it and, when finished, declines seconds by holding the cup face up and rapidly waggling it several times, right to left, indicating that he is finished and wants no more.

Majid smiles at the gesture.

With Majid translating, Shaikh Rashid continues his discourse with Lou. “We would be honored if you would consider making Dubai your home and business base. You will have security and the ability to conduct business without any difficulties in Dubai, Ras Al Khaimah, and Abu Dhabi, and if you wish, in the other Trucial States. People will know that you have our ear.

“We are not yet a wealthy country, but inshallah, we are willing to work hard for our people and for the foreigners, like you, who come here to make money for themselves. It is my goal to make Dubai the most modern state in the Arabian Gulf, filling the void of a business center in the time zone between Hong Kong and London.”

“Isn’t that Beirut’s role now?” asks Lou, directing the question to Majid to translate.

“Only temporarily,” is the translated reply. “With the Israeli and Palestinian problems spreading throughout the Middle East, Beirut will self-destruct. A war between Israel and the Arab countries will dramatically change the business dynamics in the area. We want to be ready with banks, infrastructure, and other requirements when that happens.”

Lou is amazed at the man’s knowledge and understanding of the dynamics of world politics and is mesmerized by Rashid.

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All he conjured up earlier in his spiritual assessment of the man is spot on. He’s convinced that Rashid will do everything he foresees for Dubai.

“We will be an oil-producing country in another few years, but our potential is small, and I do not want Dubai to depend on oil. We will find other ways to lead the Arab world in commerce and industry. But this will take time. I foresee that one day Dubai will have a great port and drydocks, with hotels, office buildings, and commercial facilities. It will be the ‘Pearl of the Gulf.’

“This is where our relationship with your family comes in.

We need to develop every money-making idea available to us and pump that wealth into our treasury. We need more young Western ideas and young people like you to carry them out.”

Majid, except for translating, has been quiet during the exchange. He says, “I already told Lou that one of the new beach houses I’m building is for him,” and then resumes his role as interpreter for Lou. “Your highness, I graciously accept your hospitality and business offer, but I still have my family to consider.”

“Of course, family is first,” Rashid responds to the translated statement. “As long as you stay in line with our agreed ethics, there is no reason we can’t do almost everything together.”

Again, Majid joins the discussion. “Look what His Highness has done without oil. People say we are a smuggling center in the Gulf. Nothing was ever smuggled into Dubai. It’s a dutyfree port. We deal with everything except hashish, opium, and other drugs. This is haram in Islam and will never be tolerated.

Yet, fortunes have been and are still being made in the re-export business. Shipping such forbidden or high-duty goods as gold, cigarettes, and liquor into India, Pakistan, and Iran is a very lucrative business.”

“Your Highness, you mention the need for more businessmen and investors. More are coming to the Gulf, especially Dubai, to capitalize on your future. Most from Europe and the United States 144

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but many from Asia also. Interaction and networking between businessmen are essential. Unfortunately, there are no business organizations, clubs, or even a good pub or bar for them to hang out in or to meet other businesspeople. We need a bar or lounge, a place away from our hotel lobby and dining rooms for us to meet, have a beer and a simple meal, but with the pleasantness of waiters and waitresses from their home countries, as well as singers and stage entertainers.”

Shaikh Rashid interjects in a strong Arabic tone, “No gambling in Dubai! I’m happy to let my friends in Ras Al Khaimah benefit from that, but we don’t need it here.”

“No, no,” Lou responds anxiously. “That’s not what I’m suggesting, but we do need a gathering place. Just think of the intelligence we can collect from talkative businessmen. I have some ideas that we could introduce that would benefit all of us, including your military and police services.”

“Where would we establish such a place?”

“Somewhere near the airport. Many businessmen take a flight to Dubai just to attend a meeting, or they will have a meeting while transiting on their way to Kuwait, Bahrain, Saudi or the Far East.”

After Majid’s translation, the Ruler replies in Arabic, “I’m building a new hotel, the Al Bustan, near the Dubai Airport. Such a venue that you suggest could draw business. Let me discuss this with Colonel Harcross, our Chief of Police. If he believes that such a place can be properly controlled, I will arrange for him to issue the necessary license to establish your bar in the hotel. I know that times change, and if my dreams for Dubai are to be realized, we will have to adjust some of our old attitudes.

But our Islamic traditions are very important to us, and I don’t want my people to become Westerners in Arab clothing.”

After conveying the Ruler’s message, Lou responds to Majid for translation. “Your Highness, I believe your culture and religion can exist side by side with those of the West and 145

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your neighbors to the East by gradually exposing your people to these cultures and educating them about outside influences. If it is done correctly, in twenty or thirty years, the local Dubaians will co-exist with your foreign residents.”

“Wise advice,” says Majid, before translating for the shaikh.

After absorbing the Arabic words from his advisor, Shaikh Rashid replies, “My father was concerned about the early traders from India, Pakistan, and Iran with their Buddhist, Hindu, and other religious beliefs, yet they have become our closest friends and promoters, many having been here for years.” Rashid pauses and contemplates, then responds in English, “Do you have a name for this lounge or bar and restaurant?”

Lou smiles. “Yes, I was thinking about the things that make Dubai famous. Since you’re the biggest exporter of gold, how about something simple like Ten Tola Lounge, or Bar and Restaurant, or just the Ten Tola.”

At this, Rashid laughs aloud. “Very fitting. Most appropriate.”

Indicating that the meeting is over, Rashid stands, just as the door to the private office opens and a handsome young man in his late teens wearing a dishdasha without a headcover, his long black curling locks reaching down to his shoulders, enters the private office.

With a look of dismay and in a chastising voice, Majid addresses him in Arabic. “What do you want? Can’t you see your father is busy?”

Ignoring Majid, the confident young man looks at his father with a big smile, walks up to him and greets him in Arabic, giving him a paternal three cheek kiss.

The Ruler speaks to Majid briefly in Arabic and the advisor turns to Lou. “Let me introduce you to Shaikh Mohammed bin Rashid, the third son of His Highness,” he begrudgingly says.

With a big smile, Lou walks toward the prince and offers his hand. Mohammed returns the gesture and they both shake in a strong grip. “I’m honored to meet you, Shaikh Mohammed.”

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“It’s my pleasure,” the shaikh replies in good English.

“Shaikh Mohammed has just returned from England, where he has been attending the Bell School of Languages in Cambridge,” explains a patronizing Majid. “It seems that he has at least learned some new English terms.”

Mohammed, clearly understanding what Majid has said and the tone in which it was said, silently looks at Majid with disdain.

The Ruler grabs his son’s hand, turns to Lou, and nods his head, and together, father and son exit to the majlis leaving Lou and Majid alone.

“There is one more thing I wish to discuss before you leave.

As you know, your family and partners will benefit extremely well in their business ventures. Your family alone has come with the financial help we so desperately need. Shaikh Rashid has asked me to see how we can reward Uncle Fabio and the family with an income stream directly from our coming oil wealth. Unfortunately, the concession terms with Continental Oil Company cannot be amended. However, the government has the right to market our share of the oil production. We would like to set up our own trading company for this venture and we want you to be in charge of its formation and oversee its activities once we begin operation. Your family will become a partner with us in this company. Hopefully, with success in Ras Al Khaimah, we can also include the trading of their oil through this same company.”

Lou puts his hand to his forehead. “That’s a big job. I know nothing about oil trading.”

“You don’t need to know. Just find the best people possible and hire them. I’m sure you’ve met some people at Harvard that can do this job. This can be quite a lucrative business. Just one US dollar a barrel profit on two hundred thousand barrels a day is over seventy million dollars a year. Remember you have several years before production starts. Plenty of time to get your other projects up and running.”

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“Looks like I’m going to be a busy man between now and the flow of oil.”

“By the way, don’t be concerned about the police chief’s approval for the bar. He’ll do whatever the Ruler asks.

“I’ll have the drawings of the ground floor of the new hotel and shopping complex sent to you in NOLA so you can find the spot for your Ten Tola and can start design work. Just remember to tell your architect that everything here is based on British standards.

“Let’s get you to the airport.” **** Sitting alone in the back of Majid’s Rolls Royce, Lou reflects on his introduction to the young Shaikh Mohammed, and the friction he senses between the royal and his father’s advisor.

Closing his eyes, he envisions the scene and does his gifted assessment of what he has observed. Besides being handsome and confident, the young Mohammed exhibits a maturity well beyond his years. He reminds him a lot of his young cousin Frankie, sure of himself and his relationship with his father and his family. Lou can see a lot of the Ruler in the young Prince. He projected a juvenile pre-eminence and had that added quality, like his father, a noble vibe. Physically he was very different, trim and in good shape like an athlete. When he shook hands, he could feel not only the strength of his grip but also the calluses and hard skin on his hands, just like the hands of his father, one accustomed to the desert life.

Having grown up with more of the comforts of modern life and not the hardship of the desert, this child of Rashid could be the conduit for his father to be able to straddle the two worlds of the Bedouin and the modern.

This is someone whose career I need to watch and to develop a relationship with.

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Chapter 12 Paris of the Middle East Thursday March 25, 1965

The uneventful four-hour flight to Beirut gives Lou an opportunity to ponder all the issues of the past week and to prepare his to-do list for discussions with his cousin Frankie.

As the plane starts its descent into Beirut, he looks through the window of his first-class seat and becomes mesmerized by the aerial view of this beautiful city on the Mediterranean. He’d visited the city before for a snow skiing and beach holiday, and now fondly remembers that Lebanon is one for the few places in the world where you can do both on the same day.

It was a playground for the wealthy and a hiding place for those who needed to be discreet with their wealth. Beirut banks are known to be closely allied with the confidential Swiss banking system, drawing wealth to Lebanon’s economy.

The mixed cultural and religious make-up of the population added to its unique status. For several hundred years, the country was under Muslim Turkish rule, later flipping between Christian crusader kingdoms and the Muslims. Eventually, after World War I, culminating in French control, and later independence during World War II. This historical mix gives the country, and especially Beirut, a unique blend of cultures, religions, and tribal relationships that seemed to work.

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Lou brainstorms the potential of Dubai replacing Beirut as the financial and commercial hub of the Middle East. Dubai’s petrodollar and commercial development will take years, and even then, it will take some type of calamity to occur in Lebanon for Dubai to draw the financial and commercial institutions to its small city-state. But if anyone can make it happen, it is Shaikh Rashid.

Satisfied that he is backing the right team, he relaxes as the plane lands.

Departing the customs and immigration hall, he exits into the cool early morning and the sounds of a city still vibrant with activity.

As he makes his way through throngs of friends and relatives waiting for passengers to arrive, he notices a chauffeur-capped man holding a sign bearing his name.

How in the hell did anyone know I was arriving? I didn’t share my flight information with anyone but the hotel desk clerk, and, of course, my associates in Dubai.

Approaching the name sign, he acknowledges that he is Lou Falconi.

“Sir, I’m the VIP driver for the Riviera Hotel,” he politely explains. “You have reservations with us, and I’m here to drive you to the hotel.”

Entering the Rolls Royce, Lou thinks how easy it would be to get used to this VIP treatment.

Arriving at the hotel, he’s received by the Duty Manager and several staff, who hand him a cool fruit drink and a damp refresher towel.

“Welcome to the Riviera,” the manager says with a French accent. “Please let me show you to your suite.”

Entering the room, he pauses and scans the elaborate decor.

Amazing. It’s nice to have friends.

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“If there is anything you want or need, please don’t hesitate to let me know,” the manager offers as he presents his card to his guest.

“Yes, there is something. Could you arrange a car to take me to Haigazian College at one?”

“Of course, consider it done.” With that, the manager leaves Lou to enjoy the luxury of the Riviera. **** A few hours of sleep are all Lou needs. A gym workout, steam bath, and twenty laps in the outdoor Olympic-size hotel pool invigorates him mentally and physically.

Dressed in casual slacks and linen shirt, he heads to the dining room for a lite breakfast.

With an hour to spare before going to see Cousin Frankie, Lou takes a casual walk along the waterfront cornice, already animated with the activity of young lovers strolling hand-inhand, mothers pushing prams, and young children playing.

Stopping at one of the outcrop pedestrian areas, he sits on the concrete bench and admires the sea view. What a great city.

He returns to his hotel, where the concierge advises that his car is ready. Entering the Mercedes, he asks the driver, “Can we drive through town?” As they navigate through the bustling city, Lou sees the campus of the renowned American University of Beirut (AUB), the center of intellectual and creative development for students throughout the Middle East.

Beirut is an international city with a thriving intellectual, artistic, and literary community. AUB, based on the USA university system, affords students who had been in constrictive educational system exposure to the logic and reasoning aspects of Western education.

I wonder why Frankie chose Haigazian over this university?

Once in front of the main building, Lou tips and thanks the driver, then walks toward the front entrance leading to the 151

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reception area. Asking for directions to the student dining room, he’s instructed to enter the doors to his left and to follow the signs to the student lounge. Following directions, he leisurely strolls through the complex. Arriving at the dining room, he takes a seat at the back with an unobstructed view of the entry doors and, as trained, with his back to a wall. The wall of windows on the West side of the room allows the noon sun to warm the room and to offer a view of the campus. Ordering a coffee, he relaxes and begins to scan the faces of the young students.

It’s been two years since he last saw Frankie. Even though Lou is five years older, he has always been close with his cousin, as is typical in an Italian family. He fondly remembers Frankie as a big kid, always ready to take on any dare or challenge. A tough guy, but gentle. He and his brother Vincent were the scourge of their neighborhood in New Orleans as they were growing up.

He smiles as one of the witticisms his aunts used to say pops into his head, “Quick. Hide your daughters. The Falconi boys are coming.”

Seeing movement at the entrance, he looks up. He did, yet didn’t, recognize the big man entering. Not just Lou, but everyone in the dining hall notices Frankie. Instead of waving, Lou sticks up his middle finger, for these two cousin-friends a sign of camaraderie.

Spotting Lou at a table in the back of the room, Frankie smiles at the one finger salute and walks down the aisle, casting a passing shadow across lunch eaters who are seated on the east side of the dining room.

Lou watches as his cousin approaches. Not being able to help himself, he starts to assess how Frankie has changed in two years. He’s gotten even bigger, must be at least four inches over six feet. He’s probably two-hundred twenty pounds, not rippling muscle, but he is well-proportioned and brick shithouse solid.

He walks with vigorous strides exhibiting a confidence well beyond his twenty years. His clothes are typical of the era for a 152

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young person, flared bellbottom trousers and a brightly colored psychedelic paisley shirt with puffy sleeves and round vintage wire-rimmed Windsor sunglasses. Biggest fuckin’ Beatle I’ve ever seen. Ever since the Beatles’ first USA tour last year, every young person tries to imitate their style.

Standing, Lou and Frankie hug and kiss each other on both cheeks, making Lou reflect on the three cheekers he received in Dubai and Ras Al Khaimah. “I guess we inherited this custom from our Arab conquerors,” he says to his cousin as they hug.

“Yeah, I’ve learned that all the Mediterranean people are very similar in some respects,” he replies.

For the next hour they catch up on family issues, engagements, divorces, school friends and, of course, the uncles and business.

“Driving over here, we passed the American University.

Why didn’t you go there rather than Haigazian?”

“Well, it wasn’t really my choice. I had a little trouble back home, so my dad and our uncles decided it would be best for me to leave the US for a year or two.”

“Who’d you knock up? Her parents must have had some clout to make you leave town.”

“Nothing like that. My brother Vincent and I were trying to make a few bucks and got cross wired with someone else’s business. It’s all settled now. Haigazian is low profile, and family friends here keep an eye on me for Uncle Fabio.”

“That reminds me. I have a meeting with Albert Abuzian at the Casino du Liban this evening. He’s a friend of Meyer’s and the family.”

“Sure, I know Albert. He’s my Armenian Godfather, so to speak. A good guy, runs the casino, and also has a big catering company doing business in the oilfields in the Gulf.”

“Great, you can come with me. Have you got a suit?”

“A suit of what, armor?” he replies with a big smile. “We might need it if you piss him off with your Harvard MBA attitude and your silk Armani suit.”

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“Okay, I got it. How about a smart sports jacket and turtleneck?”

“Much better.”

“Now tell me what brings you to Dubai and Beirut?”

“Family business that I need you to play a big role in. I understand that you’re coming back to the States to take a professional diving program with Nic’s son, your buddy Nicky Nicandro.

“Nicky’s dad is going to set up and run MOMS for the family in Dubai. We thought we could work there for a year or two and learn the oil field service business. It’s gonna be big in that area.

I need you in management to be onsite and monitor Nic and the business. Take the diving course now, and we’ll get you work in Kuwait or Abu Dhabi for a year for the experience you need.

Then we pull you into Dubai to work with Nic at MOMS.” Fidgeting in his chair, Frankie comments, “You know Nic— he can be an SOB. I can’t imagine what an ass he could be as a boss. Not sure if I want to deal with that.”

“Not to worry; you’ll be his number two man. He’ll know why you’re there and who put you there. You’re a Falconi, protected, even from Nic. We really need someone inside and close. We have too much to lose with the Rulers in the area to have Nic fuck it up with his side deals. We need to be transparent and fair with our Gulf partners. They are good people and want good things for their country. Right now, they need to make money, and we’re gonna help them. And, of course, make money for us too.”

“Let’s talk more this evening. I understand you’re at the Riviera.”

“Shit, are there no secrets in the Middle East? How did you know?”

“Albert told me. How do you think you got VIP treatment?

Believe me, it’s not because of your good looks and big shlong,” Frankie says, laughing.

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“By the way, have you noticed the women here. Stunning and friendly. Maybe tonight?”

“I’ve got one more exam to take before the spring holidays.

Unfortunately, it’s in thirty minutes. I’ll meet you at your hotel at eight. No silk suit,” Frankie instructs as he gets up from his chair to leave. **** The two cousins are quite prominent as they enter the lobby of the Casino du Liban—both large men, both handsome, both full of confidence, and both in smart sports jackets and turtlenecks.

Just the type of impression Lou is hoping for.

Before they ask where Mr. Abuzian can be found, Mr. Abuzian finds them.

Coming toward them is a smartly dressed gentleman wearing an Armani silk suit. Lou and Frankie look at each other and begin to laugh. Explaining their outburst to Albert, he appears to appreciate the humor and smiles.

Sizing up Abuzian, Lou is reminded of Meyer. Not a big man, but with an Eastern European flair rather than Arab. His dark hair, like Meyer’s, has a slicked back Vitalis look. They could be brothers—both extremely polite with gentlemanly qualities.

“Frankie, how are you? Where have you been? We talk, but I haven’t seen you in a few weeks.”

“Sorry, Mr. Abuzian, but school has been keeping me busy.”

“Are you sure it was school? Maybe it was one of those beautiful pillow tutors you’ve been seen with. I hope she at least taught you some French and Arabic,” he jokes with a smile.

“And this must be Lou. I’ve heard a lot about you. I’m honored to meet you.” He clutches his visitor’s hand.

“Come, let me take you on a tour. We have an early show going on now, but we’ll see the major production at midnight.

You know our shows rival the Lido in Paris as well as the shows 155

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in Las Vegas. We actually exchange cast, crew, and sets between those locations,” he explains as they walk the gaming floor.

“The tables seem to be sparsely utilized,” Lou comments as they walk past the roulette and baccarat tables.

“It’s early. The real action will start after the show,” Albert replies.

“Albert runs a great operation,” Frankie says. “I’ve been here several times after four a.m. and the place is packed. A lot of high rollers from Europe, and now Saudis and Kuwaitis are dying to lose those oil bucks. The staff and service are impeccable.”

Albert nods. “The Lebanese produce the best waiters, croupiers, and dealers in the business. They are conscientious and take pride in their job. Even the kitchen and other service staff are excellent workers.”

“That’s just what I want to talk to you about.”

“Ahh, the casino in Ras Al Khaimah. Majid and Toufiq have briefed me on that. I’m anxious to hear more and hopefully be involved. We can sit in my office before the show and discuss the opportunity.”

“I look forward to that meeting.”

“Me, too,” chimes in Frankie. “I love casinos, especially the craps table.” **** The walk through the casino reveals nothing new for Lou, who understands the business well. The layouts and types of gaming machines and tables depend on the type and economic level of the clientele. What Lou was interested in was the training of the gaming staff and the quality and training of the service staff. A good wait staff can make a big difference for return guests. And good service means good tips for the staff, making them happy and willing to give even better service. The gaming staff, dealers, croupiers and others need to be more passive in their role with 156

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customers, but nonetheless their attitude, professionalism, and personalities are critical to happy gaming.

Finishing the tour, the three men ride the small elevator to the second floor of the casino. Stepping from the lift, Albert leads them through the heavy wooden door to his office.

Lou looks in amazement. The entire length of the room facing the casino is one-way glass. The mirrored, decorative wall Lou had seen from below is the opposite side of this glass facade. “This is fantastic, a view of the entire place. It’s like a control tower up here.”

“This is really just for me to keep an eye on the patron’s behavior, not so much the gambling,” he replies. “Come, let me show you what we have for that.” Opening a door at the right of the office entrance reveals another control tower, this one high tech and complete with TV screens monitoring each table as well as the slots. “Six staff monitor the screens, and we even have VCR tape with sensitive microphones recording the action on the floor for later review if necessary. This set-up has saved us a lot of money from scammers as well as problem patrons.

They can deny and object, but once you show them the video, they immediately shut up.”

“Hmm, I can use something like this in Ras Al Khaimah and another venue I’m establishing,” Lou says, thinking about the Ten Tola. “Just imagine the conversations we could overhear.”

“Yes, that is just one of the best benefits. It also ingratiates us with all the embassy sleuths in Beirut who want information.”

Returning to the sanctity of the office, Frankie joins Albert and Lou at the conference table to discuss business.

After an hour, a restless Frankie stands and begins scanning the guests on the casino floor. “Looks like my cousin is scouting for his next conquest. Come and sit down, Frankie, we’re almost done.”

The discussions last for another hour. “I think that covers it,” Lou announces as he stands to stretch. “I’ll prepare the terms 157

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for an agreement, and once you and I concur, the lawyers can do the paperwork. To summarize, Abuzian Catering Company will provide trained staff for the hospitality areas as well as the gaming staff. They will also provide managerial services for these areas. In return, you will be paid cost plus twenty percent, as well as a net profit fee of five percent. Is this in line with what you understand?”

“Yes, very much so. We will operate from our Dubai catering offices except for the onsite staff and management, who will be based in Ras Al Khaimah.”

“I can have the heads of terms ready for our signatures

by Saturday. This will allow me to add the agreement to our lawyer’s task list in London next Monday.”

Albert stands, and he and Lou shake hands bonding the agreement.

“Come, let’s have dinner before the show starts,” invites Albert. “We have a special table reserved for us with the best view of the extravaganza.” **** The show is more spectacular than promised. Six cassockdressed horsemen riding full speed on a floor treadmill against a projected background of Russian countryside and villages; the floor opening to allow a ship to sail by the audience, appearing to float on a real waterway and, of course, dancers with flamboyant costumes and singers backed by a full band.

“I have to give it to you, Albert; this is one of the best shows I have ever seen. The stage mechanisms, the lighting, the entertainers are fantastic. This city really is the Paris of the Middle East. Someday maybe we will have this type of theatrical revue in Dubai or Ras Al Khaimah.”

“Gentlemen, if you don’t mind, I need to make my rounds and meet some of our regular guests. I’ll leave you to enjoy the casino. You have a five thousand dollars credit to play with, 158

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compliments of Toufiq, Majid, and myself. Just present these.”

He hands each a dark purple card with the Casino name and ID numbers embossed in gold print. “Enjoy.” With that, Albert Abuzian starts to leave, then turns back toward Lou. “When will you be coming back through Beirut?” he asks.

“It should be about two or three weeks, depending on the agreements being completed. I’ll let you know my arrival details when they’re set.”

“I look forward to seeing you again.”

Frankie, anxious to say something, waits until their host is out of earshot. “Shit, let’s just cash in the credit and head to town. I know some great places we can go. We can have a wild weekend and still have money left over.”

“That’s my cousin, always working the fiddle. First, we play a bit of craps and blackjack just to give them back some of their money and make it appear we enjoyed their gift.”

“Sounds like a plan, cuz. Then we head back to town. I’ve got a few school friends we can meet. I think you’ll like them.

Let’s roll those dice.”

An hour at the table is enough for Lou. Turning to Frankie, he says, “Damn, you were hot tonight. But it’s three a.m. and I need to head back to the hotel and get some sleep. We can grab a taxi out front.”

“All in the wrist and lady luck. What the fuck do you mean sleep? Let’s get out of here.”

“God! Do we have to?”

“Hey, you’re rollin’ with Cousin Frankie tonight. This is my town, and I intend to show it to you. I need to stop and cash in our cards first. No taxi for us. With our winnings, we can afford one of the casino limos for the night. You go arrange for the car.” **** “To the Duke of Wellington Pub on Hamra Street,” Frankie directs the driver. “This is my favorite English pub in town. My 159

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friends and I hang here,” he explains to an almost dozing Lou. Arriving at the pub, Frankie rouses Lou back to life and tells the driver to hang out and watch for them in an hour.

Entering the darkened pub, Lou looks around at the U-shaped bar with wooden tables and chairs and Chesterfields scattered throughout. On the walls, he admires the antique pistols and coats of arms offset by mounted deer heads. “You’re right, this place looks and feels like a traditional English pub.”

While Lou inspects the premises, getting ideas for his Ten Tola, Frankie scans the room for his friends. “Come on, this way,” he prompts and walks toward a table in the back of an adjoining room. As they get closer, the three girls and two guys seated at the table see them and give a rowdy greeting in Arabic and English, welcoming the newcomers.

“Lou, these are some friends from school.” Working his way around the table he introduces Adeb, Fozia, Antonio, Merjan, and Zaina. “Gang, this is my cousin Lou from the USA.” The two men stand, and with Guinness breath, welcome Lou and Frankie with a hug. They direct them to take their empty chairs, while the ladies hold out their hands for a respectful hand-kissing greeting.

“What will you gents have?” Adeb asks graciously.

“Nothing, we’re blowin’ this place, gang. We have a car waiting to take us to Les Caves du Roy at the Excelsior.”

“That’s pretty expensive—it’s the hottest nightclub in Beirut,” Zaina protests. “We’re just students. We can’t afford that.”

“This is courtesy of Lou and me and the Casino du Liban,” Frankie replies without further explanation.

“The Les Caves du Roy is rumored to be an infamous den of iniquity whose owner is reputed to have a relationship with Bridget Bardot and is a hangout for the oil shaikhs and spies,” Antonio says excitedly. “I’ve never been but would love to go.”

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All excited, the three girls huddle and talk in subdued tones.

Taking on the role of leader, Zaina replies, “We’re in, as long as you get us back to our dorm before the morning inspection at eight.”

Frankie stands and excuses himself, walks to the end of the bar, and picks up one of the house phones. Returning to the table, he announces, “All set. Let’s roll.”

Frankie and Lou, with the girls’thigh by thigh, fit comfortably on the backseat of the limo, while Adeb and Antonio sit on the two jump seats behind the driver.

“Take us to the Excelsior on Rue de Phoenicia, please,” Frankie instructs the chauffeur.

Arriving at their destination, they’re confronted with a line of waiting patrons, two big bouncers, and a hostess with a clipboard controlling entry. “Follow me,” Frankie orders and walks to the front of the queue. Talking quietly to the hostess, she checks her list and waves the seven to enter. Frankie slips her a C-note as he walks by.

“How in the hell did you pull that off?” Lou asks in amazement.

“Friends in high places,” a smiling Frankie responds.

“You are definitely working with me in Dubai, even if we have to boot Nicandro and give you the head job.”

Walking into the smoky and noisy club, they are led to a table with a view of three girls singing onstage with heavy English accents. “That must be the British Wilson Girls,” Lou says.

“You know of them?” an incredulous Frankie asks.

“Only from the billboard out front.” Lou smiles.

As they navigate the maze of tables and chairs, Zaina, trying to suppress a scream, announces to her girlfriends, “Oh my God, there’s Marlon Brando.” She subtly points in the direction of the movie star. “I read that he was staying at the St. George Hotel.”

“Peter O’Toole stayed there when they were filming Lawrence of Arabia,” chimes in Fozia.

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“Well, that’s where we’ll spend tomorrow afternoon,” Frankie tells Lou. “They have a great restaurant and bar with a terrace overlooking the pool and beach. Maybe we’ll see Brando there.”

Continuing to their table, the hostess seats them next to a party of men and women smoking hookahs, the women in the latest French designer couture and the men in expensive suits and checkered headdress.

Without ordering, Champagne and water and bottles of Arak are brought to the table. “Enjoy,” Frankie bids as he begins to fill glasses.

“Cheers, Sante, Fi Saḥitkum,” comes the multiple responses in French, English, and Arabic as multiple glasses tinkle together.

Frankie touches Lou’s glass and toasts. “Ya gotta love this place.”

“You’re right. There’s just something about Arab culture that I’m drawn to. I’ve decided I’m going to relocate to Dubai.

It’s accessible to the Beirut, London, and even the Singapore banking markets,” Lou responds. “Back in a minute. I need to use the head.”

Lou pushes his chair back and bumps the patron behind him. Turning to the occupant, one of the hookah smokers, Lou apologizes, “Please excuse me.”

“You’re an American. “As-salaamu aleekum, welcome.”

Remembering the Arabic response, Lou replies, “WaAleekum-Salaam, Yes, from New Orleans.”

“Are you here on business or pleasure?”

“A little of both, mostly business in Dubai but a little relaxation on my way home.”

“You are always welcome. My name is Ahmed. I’m from Saudi Arabia,” he says as he extends his hand.

“My pleasure. I’m Lou,” he replies as they shake.

“What type of business are you in?” Ahmed asks.

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“My family is involved in various activities, but we’re looking at oil and gas opportunities in the Gulf.”

“Wonderful. Please consider coming to Saudi Arabia.”

Reaching into his inside jacket pocket, Ahmed removes a business card.

Seeing the card appear, Lou removes his own card holder and retrieves a modest calling card with only his name and contacts.

Lou stands as they exchange cards. Placing Ahmed’s card in his jacket pocket, he excuses himself as he heads to the john.

Standing at the urinal, he does the one-hand hold and retrieves the card to read. His Excellency Ahmed Zaki Yamani, Minister of Petroleum and Mineral Resources, Kingdom of Saudi Arabia.

Holy Crap! This is the most important man in the oil world,” he utters aloud as he unconsciously forgets what he’s doing and quickly turns, dribbling the last few drops on his trousers.

Returning to the group, he addresses Frankie, “I’m heading back to the hotel. You stay with your friends.”

Overhearing, Zaina says, “Frankie, we need to leave also.

It’s almost seven.”

With that settled, the friends depart into the Friday morning sun. **** The remainder of the weekend is a bit of a haze for Lou. Brunch and a good rest at the St. George Hotel pool on Friday.

On Saturday, a road trip to Zahlé in the Bekaa Valley, the city of Wine and Poetry, where he and Frankie had lunch with a school friend aside a stream running through the middle of the town.

The friend’s father, Pierre, is the godfather of that part of Bekaa, and people came up to kiss his hand.

Before his flight on Sunday morning, he and Frankie schedule an early breakfast to discuss his plans for the diving course and his eventual role in Dubai. “How long is the course?” Lou asks his cousin.

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“The program is seven to eight months, but I’d like to take a month off before heading to a new job.”

“That should work well. Nic will be setting up MOMS in Dubai, and he should be up and running just as you complete the program.”

With a puzzled look, Frankie looks at his cousin. “You suggested I get some on-job diving experience for a year before coming to Dubai.”

Lou rubs his forehead and ponders. “After seeing how you assert yourself and interact with people, I don’t believe that it’s necessary. You can come to Dubai after your course and holiday, then work offshore for Nic for a few months to learn the ropes and to bond with the divers and offshore crews before being pulled into the management offices.”

Lifting his arm, Lou looks at his watch. “Damn, I need to run, or I’ll miss my flight,” he says as he stands. After a familial hug, the two depart.

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Chapter 13 London Lawyers Sunday March 28, 1965

Walking up to the Middle East Airlines check-in counter, Lou glances at the spinning panels on the wall that show the flight is on time. “Good morning,” he greets as he hands the attendant behind the desk his documents. “I see my flight is on schedule.”

She looks at the ticket and passport, and then raises her eyes to scan the passenger’s face. “Welcome, Mr. Falconi,” she responds with a smile. “Yes, it is on time, but it seems that we have a small problem. We’ve had to bump you from your first-class seat. There is a delegation of Saudi Arabia Government officials who have booked the entire first-class cabin for themselves and their families.”

Visibly upset, he begins to express his objection, but before he can respond, a gentleman with an MEA uniform overhears the conversation and approaches the counter. “Mr. Falconi, may I introduce myself. I’m Abdulla Malik, ticketing manager. I want to apologize for the inconvenience. This was an official government-to-government request and, unfortunately, it is out of the control of MEA. There is no business class on this aircraft, so we blocked three seats behind the bulkhead so you can have room to stretch. We’ll also be able to provide a first-class meal service and drinks. And, of course, we’ll reimburse you for the 165

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fare difference and provide an additional credit toward your next flight with us.”

Rolling his eyes, Lou realizes the futility of arguing and accepts his fate.

Forced to board through the back of the plane, he works his way through the aisle crowded with passengers and stands next to his three seats, setting his briefcase on the closest. Turning to lay his jacket across one of his two empty adjacent seats, his curiosity gets the best of him, and he looks up and reaches toward the curtain protecting the privacy of the first-class passengers, spreads it a few inches and catches the eye of a what registers as a familiar face.

Ahmed Zaki Yamani pulls open the curtain fully and stands in the doorway next to him. “My friend from the nightclub. How surprised I am to see you again so soon.”

“Your Excellency, Mr. Yamani, it’s my pleasure to see you again.” Still smarting from the loss of his seat, he adds, “It looks like you have a full house up front, including my seat,” he adds as a jab, but with a smile.

“I’m so sorry for troubling you. When we have business in London our wives insist on joining us so they can shop, especially at Harrod’s. Perhaps there is some way I can make it up to you.”

A smiling Lou responds, “No, that’s not necessary, Your Excellency. I understand your cultural norms regarding family privacy, and it’s only a five-hour flight. Not really an inconvenience. I’m glad I could help out.”

“Thank you for your understanding.” Offering his hand, the two men shake. As the Minister turns to return to his cabin, he pauses. “If I can ever be of any assistance in your business aspirations, please don’t hesitate to contact me.” He retreats behind the first-class curtain.

Lou stares at the curtain. This may be my connection to starting an oil trading company in Dubai when the time comes.

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One hour into the flight, a friendly MEA attendant approaches Lou. Unlatching the bulkhead mounted tray, she gently pulls it down and prepares for lunch. She then releases an adjacent tray, puts it in place, and departs. Returning, she says, “I’ve been instructed by a gentleman in front to bring this to you.” She places a full bottle of vintage Dom Perignon Champagne on the empty table, a crystal dish overflowing with Beluga caviar, and a plate of Blini’s on his table, then proceeds to pour a glass of the bubbly.

“Please tell the gentleman I graciously appreciate his gift.”

Picking up the glass, he raises it to his mouth, inhales the rising bubbles, and takes a drink. “What the hell, I can work this evening before Monday’s meetings,” he justifies to himself. Scarcely touching lunch, he concentrates on the bubbly beverage. After the third glass, he places his head against the back of his seat and falls into a Dom Perignon stupor, only to be awakened by a gentle nudge on his shoulder and a pleasant voice announcing they will be landing soon.

Exiting the terminal, Lou heads to the taxi line. Climbing into his assigned black London cab, he smiles as he recalls Tim Johnson’s little joke with the green Land Rovers. “To the Dorchester,” he instructs the driver. **** Settling into his room, he realizes that the flight time and two-hour time gain allows him to partake in one of his most enjoyable Sunday London activities and sets off for a stroll through Hyde Park. Hearing cheers, jeers, and other heckling, he follows the noise to Speakers Corner and stops to listen to the eccentric characters on their soapboxes preaching love, hate, politics, polygamy or whatever their message is to the throngs who cheer or boo them. He listens to several of the orators. What a great free speech tradition, knowing that historic figures such 167

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as Vladimir Lenin, Karl Marx, and George Orwell were allowed to freely spout their ideologies here.

The next morning, he takes a refreshing walk to the Temple area, the main legal district in London, for his appointment at the law offices of Conetti & Shire. Just off Middle Temple Lane, he turns left onto one of the side streets. The walk allows him time to mentally review his agenda before the meeting. Locating his destination, a distinctive Portland Stone building identified only by a small brass plate on the glossy black door, he presses the brass doorbell and is immediately received.

“Mr. Falconi, Mr. Conetti is expecting you. Please come in.

I’m Mary Margaret, Mr. Conetti’s assistant.”

Entering the dimly lit reception area, Lou takes in the décor that reminds him of an old British gentleman’s club.

Dark mahogany paneling, some covering the entire twelve-foot wall and some just four-foot-high wainscoting, with traditional printed wallpaper above the wood line. High-backed Queen Ann chairs, upholstered in burgundy leather with brass nail-head trimming, and a matching sofa furnish the formal waiting area.

On the large clerical desk sits a plaque with “Administrative Assistant” engraved on it, but no name.

“Please be seated. Can I offer tea or coffee?” the assistant asks.

“No, thank you.”

“Mr. Conetti will be with you shortly.”

Lou sets his briefcase on his knees and starts to open it to review his weekend work, but before he retrieves the documents, a portly gentleman with a gray wool winter suit and matching curly gray hair enters and advances towards him.

“Welcome, Mr. Falconi, I’m Carl Conetti. My brother has told me so much about you. I’m glad to finally meet you.”

“Likewise, your brother Tony has spoken highly of you and your law firm.”

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“Please come into my office,” he says as he turns to guide the way.

Entering the room, Lou notices that Carl’s office is decorated like the reception, but larger and with windows facing the streetside for good ambient lighting. Floor to ceiling bookcases filled with leather bound volumes cover one full wall. In front, a ladder connected to a wheeled track along the top allows access to the high shelves across the span. I could use something like that in my Dubai bar office.

The two businessmen sit at the round conference table, and Lou removes the documents from his case.

Addressing the solicitor, he comments, “I’ve known your brother since our Harvard days. We even boxed together at the Harvard Boxing Club. Our family does a lot of business through his Singapore and Hong Kong offices. His relationship with the Hong Kong and Shanghai Banks have been very helpful for us.

Tony’s planning to meet me in New Orleans later next week and then fly with me to Dubai on his way back to Southeast Asia.”

“I’m so glad to hear that your business relationship with my brother has developed so well. I trust that we can give you the same efficient and confidential service that he provides.

Hopefully, we can have dinner when you both pass through London. I did receive the telefaxes you sent over the weekend with the terms for the agreements you need prepared. That helps immensely. How long will you be in London?”

“I’m hoping to leave on Wednesday, if we can complete our task by then.”

“That should work. If we can go over everything this morning, we should have drafts on Wednesday to discuss before preparing the final documents. Shall we start on the casino documents first?”

A few hours later, Lou stretches his arms upwards and lets out an audible yawn.

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Seeing that his client needs a break, Carl suggests they have lunch.

“If you don’t mind, just a sandwich and a coffee would do fine with me. Can we order in, and finish plodding through this?

I can always come by again on Tuesday to clarify anything if needed, or you can call me at the hotel if you have any questions.”

“Of course. I’ll ask my assistant to handle the food. Is ham and cheese, okay?”

“Fine, with Dijon mustard only.”

By 3:00 p.m., the duo calls it a day, and Lou cabs it back to his hotel to take a jet-lag induced nap and to spend a quiet evening having a drink and listening to the pianist at Dorchester’s bar. **** Tuesday afternoon, Lou receives an afternoon phone call from his lawyer to discuss some missing details, eliminating the need for a personal meeting, but culminating with an agreement to meet Wednesday mid-morning, followed by lunch at Carl’s gentleman’s club.

Wednesday morning’s get-together is uneventful, just one last edit, and by noon, the pair are walking the two blocks to the Temple Club, frequented by London’s legal elite and their clients.

The club is a bit stuffy for Lou’s taste. Looking around at the wannabe aristocrats, half of them already in their cups, he thinks about how he plans to make the atmosphere in his Ten Tola casual, where the clientele will mellow out, drinking, talking, and having a good time.

Watching as Carl finishes half of the second bottle of Louis Jadot, Lou decides it’s time to go. “Carl, since we’ve finished our work, I’d like to excuse myself to do some shopping before my flight tonight. Please stay. It would be a shame not to finish that lovely bottle of wine.”

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“Well, humrph, humrph, of course, if you insist. I will have the final documents couriered to your office in New Orleans.

You should receive them on Monday,” Carl slurs as he tries to stand.

“Please don’t get up.” Bending toward his host, Lou shakes his hand and departs.

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Chapter 14 The Big Easy Thursday April 1, 1965

Without a direct flight to New Orleans, Lou is forced to spend two hours in Idlewild International Airport in New York.

Even though it had been renamed John F. Kennedy International Airport, after Bobby’s treatment of Uncle Fabio and other family associates, he refuses to acknowledge the name change.

Arriving in New Orleans at one Thursday afternoon, he heads directly to his apartment in the French Quarter, an old, converted slave quarters that Frankie’s brother owns and has impeccably renovated and decorated.

The location suits his social and business life—close to the town’s finance center and his office, yet just across the bridge from Uncle Fabio’s offices and warehouse in Gretna.

His body clock, not yet adjusted to London time from Dubai time, is now totally confused. After a few hours of sleep, he’s wide awake and heads off to spend the early evening with his parents in Metairie. How will Mom take the news that I want to move to Dubai? His mind wanders as he drives to his family home, knowing that if Uncle Fabio agrees, so will his parents.

No matter how short or long the absence, an Italian mamma is always worried about her boy and welcomes him like the prodigal son, almost force-feeding him everything in the

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refrigerator.

“Mamma, basta, enough, please,” a stuffed Luigi begs. “I need to visit Uncle Fabio. I’ll see you again at Sunday dinner.”

Kissing her on both cheeks, he picks her up in a hug and twirls her around the kitchen. He still hears her giggling as she closes the front door behind him.

The five-minute drive to the Beverly Country Club in Metairie allows him to arrive before his uncle gets busy schmoozing with the evening dinner theater and gambling crowd.

Stopping at the reception desk, he asks the attendant where Mr. Falconi is seated. Instead of the dining room, she directs Lou to a small private room at the back of the main building.

Knocking twice on the heavy wooden door, she then taps four times on the keypad next to the door, and it opens.

Seeing Lou, Uncle Fabio immediately stands and the two men embrace in a tight bearhug. “Welcome home,” greets Zio Fabio. “Come, sit. Meyer and I were just having a glass of wine and discussing your accomplishments.”

Looking up from his chair, Meyer’s shining hair seems to shimmer in the light. “How ya doin’ kid? I guess we got lots to talk about.”

Out of respect, Lou walks over to his Jewish Godfather and kisses his Vitalis-greased head. “Yes, we do. All of the final agreements will arrive by Monday. In the meantime, I can explain what’s transpired in Beirut and London.”

“Don’t bother about Beirut. We’ve already chatted with Abuzian. The casino deal’s dead.”

Shocked, a stunned and white-faced Lou weakens at the knees and grabs the back of one of the chairs. “All of my work, my meetings with the Ruler, what happened?”

With a hard slap on his nephew’s back, Fabio bends over in uncontrolled laughter and cries out, “April’s Fool!” Grabbing Lou, he again hugs him and helps him into the chair he has been 173

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leaning on.

In between spastic laughs, Meyer stutters, “Sorry, Lou, we couldn’t help ourselves. We’re the experts in desert entertainment.

We don’t want to lose this opportunity you’ve brought to the family.”

“Christ, I’m so screwed up timewise I forgot what day it is.

You two are like a couple of kids. For a while there, I thought I was destined for a trip to the bayou to have dinner with the gators.”

“Na, never family. We have other ways to deal with family misfits,” Fabio remarks, still giggling at his successful prank.

For the next couple of hours, the three amigos talk about their future in the Trucial States. By midnight, Lou’s jet lag kicks in and he asks permission to retire for the night.

Fabio stands and again hugs Lou. “You take it easy this weekend. Meyer and I have a meeting in Vegas, and we’ll be gone until Monday night. You get Nicandro and your legal guys together in the Gretna office on Tuesday at five for a special meeting. By the way, we have some news about who our oil company partner will be in the Ras Al Khaimah oil deal, but that and the casino are not agenda items for the meeting. This is something that only the bosses will know about. I’ll fill you in when I return.”

After Lou leaves the room, Fabio turns to Meyer. “The kid’s good; always one of my favorite nephews—wish I had a son like him,” he laments.

“Yeah,” responds Meyer. “He’s got the smarts, but does he have the balls? Teaming Frankie with him will be a good balance of balls and brains.”

Walking back through the club, the atmosphere has become electric with the sound of gamblers and their trophy wives or girlfriends having an enthusiastic time at the tables and slots. At the entrance, Lou deviates to look in the dining room where he sees a different clientele, more reserved couples, husbands and 174

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wives, enjoying the Club’s renowned cuisine with soft music from the on-stage quartet.

“Something for everyone. That’s the secret of a good club, casino, and even a bar,” he thinks to himself as he steps out the door into the night air to retrieve his car from the valet. **** Tuesday April 6, 1965

Unknown to Lou, the meeting on Tuesday was to be more than a family affair. It will be known in FBI annals as the “Gretna Gulf Coast Conference” where the Falconi family and their USA Gulf coast partners’ interests in the Middle East will be agreed and old relationships affirmed.

Lou arrives at the NOLA Vending Company warehouse an hour early and parks in one of the spaces marked RESERVED. Looking at the entrance, he is surprised to see two men standing by the door, both smoking, both wearing long coats. Exiting his car, he approaches one of the smokers, a tall thin man, the company’s Chief of Security, Tommy “Stringbean” Fagioli.

“Tommy, why the extra security?”

“Lou, good to see you. Your uncle wants a few extra people around for his meeting. Nothing unusual is expected, it’s just a precaution,” he explains as he escorts Lou into the warehouse.

Entering the storage area, another surprise. Instead of the usual bustle of activity and vending machine parts scattered around for repair, he sees a spotless floor with four tables in the middle of the room arranged in a big square. He silently counts twelve chairs. “What the fuck! Looks like it’s set up for the last supper!” Lou exclaims.

“It’s for the meeting. Just following the boss’s orders. He’s expecting guests from out of town.”

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“Damn, the last time there was a meeting like this was in fifty-seven at Joe Barbara’s house in New York and all shit broke loose with the feds. I hope the boss knows what he’s doing.”

“Sorry, Lou, I just follow orders,” Tommy replies as he slinks back outside.

Choosing his seat, Lou arranges his documents on the table, sets his briefcase on the chair, and walks to the activity in the back of the room. On two tables are set eight commercial-sized food warmers with small flames flickering underneath, a large tray of hors d’oeuvres, and a big crock of bubbling gumbo arranged for a buffet. On a second table, a bartender sets up a drinks bar with every type of alcoholic and soft drink imaginable. Next to the food table, a uniformed waiter is positioning the dishes and utensils.

Shaking his head in disbelief, Lou starts to walk back to his papers, but a gurgling stomach entices him to return and inspect the contents of the charcuterie board. Picking a few items from the tray, the waiter follows him with the plate and utensils, setting them next to his work papers where he reads and eats.

Just before the appointed meeting time, Lou’s school mate, Tony Conetti, enters. Seeing his chum, Lou stands to receive him. “Tony, I didn’t expect you until later this week.”

“That was the plan, but I received word from Meyer that I should be here today to attend this gathering.”

“Where are you staying?” Lou asks as others begin to file in and take seats at the table.

“At the Monteleone.”

“We’ll talk later,” Lou says. He walks to the entrance where he greets each of the guests and introduces himself to those he doesn’t know, finishing just as Uncle Fabio and Meyer enter from the back office.

Fabio looks dapper in a tailored gray suit and black tie that are set off with a pair of striking alligator boots, probably from a gator he personally caught. His appearance projects distinction, 176

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respectability, and authority. Stopping behind the seat reserved for him, his huge hands grip the top of the chairback as he looks around the tables and checks out the attendees. “Gentlemen, welcome. I see we’re all here. Please make yourselves comfortable.”

Silence encompasses the room. With a piercing stare, Uncle Fabio looks at the waiter and bartender. His silent, ocularlytransmitted message not being understood, he finally resorts to words. “SCRAM!” Everyone smiles as the two attendants almost run for the door. “Drinks will be self-service for the rest of the meeting,” he calmly announces, and then continues.

“Most of us know each other, but there are a couple of faces that may be new to some of you. I see you’ve all met my nephew, Luigi Falconi. Sitting on his right is Tony Conetti, who just flew in from Shanghai especially to see us. Tony has been helping Meyer and our friends in Vegas through his banking contacts in the Far East.”

A proud Uncle Fabio can’t resist. “Tony and Luigi did their MBAs at Harvard together.” Reverting to his well-known street vocabulary for maximum effect, he looks at Big John Ormento.

“Ain’t dat the school whers we met?”

“Nah, you’re confused. It was at the School of Hard Knocks in Angola in West Feliciana Parish,” Big John responds with a dead pan look. The Abbot and Castello-style skit breaks the ice, and the room erupts in friendly laughter.

Damn, Uncle Fabio is good.

Dropping the cursing and tough bravado speech he likes to use to intimidate people, Uncle Fabio transforms into an onstage Master of Ceremony and waits until the laughter settles before he continues.

“Big John is here as an observer for our friends on the East Coast. To his right, we welcome Leonardo Scala, representing our friends from Houston.” When he hears his name, Leo raises his right hand, just as he was taught to do in Catholic school when 177

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the nuns called roll. “Next to Leo is Shamus Reilly, representing our Florida associates, Sam Giancana and John Scalish.”

Breaking the flow of introductions, Fabio singles out the Florida representative. “Hey, Shamus, I understand you like duck hunting. Maybe we can get out for a shoot at my private camp in Lacombe before you leave.”

“Great, I’d love to, but it’s not duck season.”

“It’s always duck season on my land. If they fly over or land, they belong to me.” Fabio continues his introductions. “Sitting next to Shamus is Matteo LaRocca, here on behalf of Joe Civello from our Dallas family.”

Singling out a large man seated across from him, the introductions continue. “This is Nicholas Nicandro. Nic started working for the offshore fabrication and pipeline company McDermott International in their New Orleans office and worked his way to the number two spot in the corporation, setting up many of their international subsidiaries and offices in such places as Beirut and Singapore. Nic has chosen to leave McDermott to move to Dubai to set up a new company for our consortium, Marine Offshore Maintenance Services.”

Fabio tries to stifle a laugh and adds, “I guess you could say, it was an offer he couldn’t refuse.” Unsure if it is a joke, except for Nic and Lou’s laughs, the guests remain silent.

Turning to a table with two empty chairs, Fabio introduces Joey ‘Cookie’ Biscotti from Atlanta. “Hey, Cookie, lend me—” “I ain’t got no fuckin’ comb,” Joey retorts. “You been watchin’ too much television, referring to Edd Byrnes role as Kookie on 77 Sunset Strip. I was Cookie with a ‘C’ long before that punk was born.”

Fabio shoots back, “I was just gonna ask if you can lend me that extra ashtray on your table?”

“Oh, sorry, Fabio. Sure,” he timidly answers as the room breaks up laughing. Slowly, Joey stands and walks around the tables, shoulders hunched over like a scolded kid, and hands the 178

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ashtray to his host. A smirk on both of their faces confirms the set-up.

“Okay, back to business.” With respect and affection, Fabio puts his hand gently on the shoulders of the man sitting in the next chair. “All of you know the last of our band of brothers, our partner and my friend and Consigliere, Meyer Lansky. Las Vegas is a big part of our agenda today, and Meyer will address that with the assistance of Toni Conetti.

“You’ll notice two empty chairs. During the first part of this meeting, Lou will tell us what new business ventures we have committed to in the Middle East. After that, we will ask our legal and finance people to join us to explain the mechanics of the investments.

“I don’t need to remind all of you of the oath we have taken regarding our family business. You never rat on your friends, and you keep silent—Omertà.” With that he turns to his nephew.

“Luigi, it’s all yours.”

Seeing the professional side of his uncle for the first time, the young nephew feels under pressure to please. “First of all, let me ask Mr. Nicandro to explain the establishment of MOMS, what the company will cost to set up and operate for the first year, and the services it will offer.”

During Nic’s presentation, Lou interrupts him only once to explain the government’s guarantee of contracts to Marine Offshore Maintenance Services (MOMS). When Nic finishes, Lou reveals the profit projections to audible gasps from the guests.

“This is just for one company,” Lou explains. “We will be establishing a number of new companies, as well as working with McDermott International through their subsidiary, McDermott Arabian Gulf, who will be the main contractor to the government for all pipelines as well as offshore and onshore fabrication and construction.” Not needing to say the actual words, “money laundering,” Lou resumes. “Remember these companies also 179

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provide additional profit streams for us that we lost when Cuba collapsed.”

After Nic finishes answering questions, Lou explains the quid pro quo with the Dubai Government. “As you all know, we have committed to significant loans to the Ruler of Dubai for our preferred status in the development of their oil industry.

This has all been agreed upon by the various families. After dinner, Mr. Lansky and Mr. Conetti, along with our legal and financial specialists, will explain the mechanics of how this will be managed.”

As instructed by his uncle and Meyer, Lou doesn’t mention the casino or oil concession in Ras Al Khaimah.

“Gentlemen, before we break to eat, I would like to make one statement regarding my observations during my stay in Dubai. We have been given a license to participate in any profitmaking ventures that we choose, so long as it doesn’t violate any laws that could jeopardize the Rulers’ sovereignty, especially the import and export of any type of drugs. This is a deal made in heaven. We won’t allow any rogue activity to ruin it,” he concludes.

Lou pauses and adds, “A deal made in heaven.” He realizes he repeated the words he just used. Recalling his morning on the sand dunes outside of Dubai, he begins to question his willingness to sell his soul. After his experiences in Dubai and the affinity he has developed with the Rulers and people there, Lou seems torn between who he really is and the alter ego he believes the family wants him to be.

Picking up from his nephew, Uncle Fabio, interjects. “Just one more point of business. We all know how important it is to have the right man overseeing our business ventures and making sure things are done right. I have agreed with our partners in Dubai that Luigi will relocate there to manage our affairs. Per favore, Mangia!”

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**** Making sure everyone is well fed, Lou approaches the buffet table just as Shamus mutters to Big John, “Fuck, just Cajun and WOP food. Cheap bastards. Not even a steak.”

Without thinking, the boxer inside Lou kicks in, and he grabs Shamus by the collar. “You fuckin’ mick prick, got no respect,” and pushes the Irishman’s face into the hot pot of gumbo. “Uncle Fabio’s a ‘made man.’ Show him the respect he deserves.” He holds Shamus’ head in one of Louisiana’s favorite foods.

Shamus lifts his head, hot gumbo dripping from his face.

“Lou, Lou, please, I din’t mean anyting, I’m sorry.”

“Fuckin’ right you are. I should make you crawl on your knees to Uncle Fabio to apologize. Go get cleaned up. We got business to do.”

Damn that felt good. Lou uses a napkin to wipe the gumbo off his hands.

Once the excitement of dinner is complete and the tables clean, the meeting resumes.

Meyer explains, without too many details, the mechanics of how the funds will be transferred through an intricate system set up by Tony.

Without revealing certain confidential aspects, Tony cautiously explains the professional relationship with the Pakistani bank, United Bank Limited, and the flow through to the British Bank of the Middle East into the National Bank of Dubai.

“All funds, even those coming through the UK and Europe, will travel through the system, first funneled through Southeast Asia.

Before we depart, I have power of attorney documents that you will need to sign and have certified by our legal advisor at the worktable in back. I also have documentation that all of you have the authority to sign on behalf of your management. These powers of attorney allow Mr. Lansky and me to process fund transfers, letters of credit, and any other documents needed to carry out business.”

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It is close to midnight before all the legal and financial paperwork the lawyers prepared is completed.

Given the okay from Lou that all is in order, Uncle Fabio stands. “Gentlemen, this is a dramatic moment in the business relationships and business development for all our organizations.

Instead of competing like the eight arms of an uncoordinated octopus, we have shown we can coordinate our business goals and all share in the future benefits. Thank you, and please enjoy the rest of your night at the Beverly Country Club as our guests.”

As the room empties, Lou, ecstatic at the prospect of moving to Dubai, faces his uncle. “Are you sure about me living in Dubai?”

“It wasn’t my choice. In two weeks, you made so many fuckin’ friends there, they insisted it had to be you.” Giving him the familial hug, he whispers in his ear, “They know a good man when they see one, and so do I. Just remember, family comes first.”

“Thank you, Uncle Fabio. I won’t let you down.”

“By the way, kid, I got confirmation that we have a meeting next Tuesday afternoon with Scotty La Rouche, Chairman of Canuck Petroleum Company. This is Majid’s choice for the concession in Ras Al Khaimah. He thinks a Canadian company won’t draw the scrutiny of the US government as an American company might.

“Majid tells me that the letter the Ruler gave you was the frosting on the cake for Canuck Petroleum. That sealed the deal for them. Again, good job.”

Fabio pauses. “Maybe we should use your office—more professional than meeting in a vending machine company warehouse,” he remarks.

“What about the Senator? Is he okay with this?”

“Actually, he’s relieved that it’s not an American company.

Less politics for him to have to juggle. Those political bastards want your money but don’t want to do anything for it.”

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“I have the documents for the Dubai and Ras Al Khaimah consortium partners, but we need to do a formal partnership agreement with the Canadians.” Lou pauses. “Hopefully their lawyers will bring a draft concession agreement we can use as a template. I’ll discuss that in the meeting.”

“I want an agreement signed at that meeting,” Fabio says.

“Once that’s done, you can work on the concession. Majid says it’s a done deal according to the terms you proposed. I just need to rally our partners to put up the bonus money and other funds as a loan to CPC.” Fabio continues, “Let’s keep it out of the hands of our USA lawyers. Can you get your man from London here for the meeting?”

“Tony Conetti and I are having lunch tomorrow I’ll have him call his brother Carl to fly in for the meeting. Carl already has the background on the deal.”

Putting his hands on Lou’s shoulders, an emotional Fabio looks at Lou with watery eyes. “By the way, thank you for defending my honor. Shamus is a dick and sometimes needs to be reminded about how he got where he is. His boss Johnny Scalish and I were just talking about him. Johnny wasn’t sure if he should send him, but I told him to give him another chance.” **** Wednesday April 7, 1965

Enjoying lunch in the patio room at Commander’s Palace, a Haute Creole cuisine New Orleans landmark, Lou and his school chum, Tony Conetti, discuss the upcoming meeting with Canuck Petroleum Company.

“Tony, will you call your brother Carl in London to put him on notice about next week’s meeting, and ask him to get all the information he can on Scotty La Rouche and his oil companies?

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Tell him to arrive on Sunday so we can spend the day before making sure we have everything in order.”

“Of course. I can catch him this evening at his home in Ascot.”

“To expedite things, tell him to fax the info to my office so I can review it before we meet.”

“Lou, if I’m out of line, tell me, but can I ask you a question about your Uncle Fabio?”

“Shoot. If you’re out of line, I’ll let you know.”

“When I saw your uncle in the meeting yesterday, I was expecting him to talk and act like—well, a gangster. Every time he’s on TV or in the news, it’s always, ‘How ya like dat,’ or ‘I ain’t in no racket,’ or he’s cussing and yelling. But yesterday, except for his staged comedian bits, he was dressed and talked like a real businessman, like you and me.”

“Well, that’s because he is a real businessman. Remember our Harvard days and the professor who taught the ‘Corporate Organizations’ course?”

“Vaguely. I may have been hungover during that course.”

“One day in class, I suggested that the organization structure of big businesses is the same as in a crime organization, the only difference is in titles. A corporate CEO is the same as a Capo de Capi. What corporations call a president is a Caporegime in the family, and a vice president, is called a Capo. All of these have their own advisors called a Consigliere, usually a very experienced member of the family or close confidant who advises each of them on almost all matters.”

“Ya, I remember now. The professor agreed with you, but he pointed out that there are also significant differences.”

“Right. The professor said the structure of the Mafia is more fluid than that of a corporate business, as each boss has the freedom to deal with his organization as he chooses, whereas a CEO in a corporation has a board of directors to answer to.

What he didn’t mention was what I consider to be the power in 184

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a family, loyalty. Family bosses demand loyalty with delegation of their power and authority often being based on personal and family relationships, rather than expertise or the best person for the job.”

“Without an overall boss or board of directors, how do you control the individual top family bosses who operate out of line of what the majority of families feel is acceptable business behavior. Don’t they need some kind of control?” Tony asks.

“There have been attempts to form a commission made up of a number of bosses elected by their peers. This was the basis for the Apalachin Summit held on November 14, 1957, in which members of the extended family, came together to discuss operations, confirm family leadership, and discuss conflicts that were hurting business. During the fifties, the organization was going through big changes and leaderships were unsettled as new factions tried to gain control of a family business by taking it away from the old faction. At that time, Vito Genovese planned to take over Lucky Luciano’s family. Lucky was in jail then, and he appointed Frank Costello to be in charge while he was incarcerated. Vito teamed up with Carlo Gambino and the Albert Anastasia family, and they attempted an unsuccessful hit on Costello in May 1957. He got the message and stepped down as Lucky’s appointee. A few months later, Albert Anastasia was blown away by shotguns while relaxing in a barber’s chair.”

“At least he died with a clean shave to go with his shotgun blow dry.” Tony laughs.

Lou shakes his head. “After Genovese had control of his own family, he wanted to take over the Mafia as a whole to be the boss of bosses over every other family. The FBI thwarted Vito’s plans and made sure the first commission meeting was a failure by raiding the place and arresting some of the big boys.

But since then, the commission has convened secretly several times to settle inter-family disputes and is slowly adapting into a 185

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proper board of directors with all families voting for the bosses to represent them on the commission.”

Lou shrugged. “Getting back to Uncle Fabio, his genius is that he can change personalities to fit the situation. Last night’s meeting required his CEO hat as he was dealing with corporate business, presenting a business plan.”

“What about your uncle’s other personality? Have you ever seen that side of him?”

“Only when we’re with friends and family. If you see him playing cards or at a family dinner, he reverts to friendly street talk, a lot of ‘dis’ and ‘dats.’ Fortunately, I’ve never been present when he turns on the Mr. Hyde character, but I’ve heard stories.

When he wants—or needs—to intimidate, or feels that he’s not being treated with respect, he can be brutal, and not just verbally.

Remember, don’t cross Uncle Fabio and always treat him with respect, just like you would a CEO of a Fortune 500 company.”

“So those stories about trips to the swamps, feeding double crossers to his pet alligators, and the CIA recruiting him to assassinate Castro aren’t true?”

“Nah, urban myths, scary campfire stories. Fabio loves life.

He gets his kicks from women, food, and fun, more than whatever psychotic thrill his business partners may get from taking a life.

That really isn’t for him. But he’s not above taking a potential partner to the bayous to scare the shit out of them, or to take a traitor for a ride to guarantee their repentance and allegiance, or if he’s irredeemable, to feed him to the gators.”

Lou pauses and drains the dregs in his wineglass. “Most of the guys you associate as crime bosses are the offspring of immigrants from many countries who had it tough growing up.

They all want the American Dream for their family, educated kids, a house in the suburbs, and respect. Me, my cousin Frankie, we’re the fruits of their labor—future, legitimate businessmen.”

Lou pushes back his chair, indicating the end of the discussion. “Let’s move. We’ve got work to do.”

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Leaving the restaurant, the two businessmen casually walk through the Garden district and hop a streetcar back to the office.

Entering Lou’s office, Lou reminds Tony about the funds transfer. “As soon as you get confirmation that the funds have been transferred to the Dubai bank, let me know. I’ll need to put Majid on notice.”

“I’ll give you a call as soon as I hear. With the time difference, it should be Friday morning. You should have the dossier from Carl, on CPC then also.”

Lou hesitates. “Can you stay in town for the meeting with CPC?” “I need to check with my office. I’ll let you know when I see you on Friday. Ciao.”

“Wait! I have something for you,” he says with a mischievous grin as he opens his desk drawer, removes a box of Cuban Montecristo No. 1 cigars and hands them to Tony. “Uncle Carlos seems to have an unlimited supply of these from a friend in Cuba.” **** Friday April 9, 1965

As Tony enters the office, Lou is seated at the conference table reading the morning paper and nursing his third cup of coffee. Quickly folding the paper, he leans on the chair next to him, out of Tony’s view, opens the file on the table, uncurls the floppy thermal paper, and reads about Scotty La Rouche, the legendary Canadian oilman. After a brief time, he closes the file and slides it across the table to Tony. “It says he made a fortune drilling wildcat wells in Alberta, and that his success started a modern-day gold rush in the province starting a frenzied hunt by legitimate players, as well as shysters, to strike it rich. Maybe he can do the same thing in Ras Al Khaimah.”

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Tony reads aloud. “His two sons, Duffy and Maccie, are both involved in the business. However, their dubious activities in forming public companies and raising funds have put a cloud over any of their activities that don’t involve their father.”

“I think we need to keep those two at arm’s length in this deal.”

“I agree. By the way, thanks for following through on the transfer. Majid confirmed it hit their bank. Good work.”

“Do you know if you can stay for Tuesday’s meeting? We may have to funnel some loans to CPC for the signing bonus and a bridge loan to get things moving.”

Looking puzzled, Tony responds, “This report says that Scotty made a fortune. His company should have the money for those expenses.”

“Scotty is a smart man. He’s not gonna risk his own money on what most oilmen call a long shot. His agreement with Majid and Uncle Fabio was that Canuck Gulf Petroleum would be the operator and fifty percent partner with the Ras Al Khaimah and Dubai groups. However, the signing bonus and certain other expenses will be loaned to the company by the Argent Corporation, which is an umbrella private partnership of all the families.”

“Hell, Meyer and I will come up with some way to make money on those loans. How about old-fashioned loan shark rates?” Tony suggests with a smile.

“Okay, it’s now in the hands of our finance specialists, so now you have to stay in New Orleans to work things out.”

“That lunch the other day was fabulous. If you can offer dinner venues with food as good or better than that for the next few nights, I’ll stay.”

“I got a better idea,” Lou says. “Meyer told me he needed to get back to Vegas as Sinatra is playing the Copa Room at the Sands this weekend. He can get tickets. We can catch a flight 188

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later this afternoon and get back Sunday night, ready for our meeting with your brother, Carl, on Monday morning.”

Tony jumps up and down like a little kid about to pee his pants. “Wow! Let’s go. My clients in Shanghai and Hong Kong love Ol’ Blue Eyes and the Rat Pack.” Do you think you can get him to take a photo with us?”

“You know Meyer. Not much he can’t do. He’s also friends with Howard Hughes, who owns the Sands. Maybe he can pull in a favor on the photo and even get a comp for a couple rooms.”

“Las Vegas, here we come!” Tony cheerfully exclaims.

“You head back to your hotel and get ready. Once I know our flight times, I’ll let you know and come by to collect you for the drive to the airport.”

Already at the door, an excited Tony departs.

Once he’s gone, Lou retrieves his newspaper and re-reads the title of the small column at the bottom of page two that caught his eye before Tony arrived: “Body Found in Bayou.” Slowly he reads: “The partial body of a male Caucasian was found yesterday near a popular duck hunting site in a tributary of the Atchafalaya River close to Simmesport. Police are treating it as a homicide. No further details have been released.”

“SHIT!” Remembering what Uncle Fabio said to Shamus about duck hunting at last week’s meeting and the gumbo head dip, Lou shakes his head. “Looks like Shamus went duck hunting after all. The little prick deserved it.”

189

Chapter 15 Vegas Nights Monday April 12, 1965

Entering Lou’s office conference room, Carl Conetti is met by the pitiful sight of two grown men sprawled on the carpeted floor of the conference room. One, using his folded-up suit jacket as a pillow, and the other fully suited, lying in a fetal position, two hands together in a prayer pose cushioning his head. Returning to the reception area, he approaches the secretary at her desk.

“How long have they been here?”

“They were like that when I arrived, so I just left them.”

“Better make coffee while I see if I can rouse them into action.”

Returning to the conference room, Carl approaches his brother Tony, kneels next to the supine body and roughly pulls the jacket out from under his head, causing it to make a dull thumping sound as it hits the padded floor. Patting his brother’s cheeks with both hands, he scowls, “Wake up, you sozzled lout.”

Tony opens his eyes. Seeing Carl, he smiles. “Hey, bro, what are you doing in Vegas?”

Just as the secretary arrives with coffee, he gets Tony in a sitting position and takes a cup from her, placing it into his brother’s hands. “Drink this while I wake Lou.” Carl moves over to the other side of the room where Lou, with the aid of a conference chair, precariously makes an effort 190

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to stand. Successfully pulling the chair away from the table, he sits and reaches for the coffee that had been placed there by the sympathetic secretary.

Struggling, Tony also takes a seat at the table and nurses his black drink.

In his strongest British accent, Carl shouts, “What in bloody hell have you two been up to?”

Instead of being startled, Lou begins to giggle at Carl’s British accent. “Ask your brother. It’s his fault. He made me do it.”

Tony reaches for his suit jacket pocket and pulls out a nowsomewhat crumpled photo of him and Lou with Sinatra in the middle, cigarette in hand, and signed by the Chairman of the Board himself. “Las Vegas. We went to see Sinatra at the Sands.

What a great weekend.”

“Look, you scoundrels, I flew across the pond to arrive fresh for a day’s work. Get your act together. We have a lot to do.”

Pushing the chair from the table, Lou stands and walks to the door. “Sorry, Carl, our flight should have arrived late Sunday night, but it was delayed in Denver. We just arrived a couple of hours ago, so we decided to come straight to the office. A few coffees and food, and we’ll be ready to go. I’ll get some breakfast ordered.”

“Wait, ask your girl to get a couple of toothbrushes and toothpaste. The breath stench from both of you reeks of booze, pussy, and other Vegas odors.” **** By early evening, everything needed for Tuesday’s meeting with Canuck Petroleum is completed.

Trying to retake control, an embarrassed Lou, addresses Carl, “Thank you for rousing the troops this morning and your diligence in leading us in preparing everything we need for 191

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tomorrow’s meeting. Also, my thanks for the dossier on the La Rouche boys.

“Glad I can be of service. What time is the meeting tomorrow?”

“Scotty and his team are flying in from Calgary on his Learjet 23 and are expected to arrive at noon.”

“That’s the same jet Old Blue Eyes has,” Tony says with a sheepish grin.

Lou gives him a dirty look. “We’ve arranged for lunch in a private room at Antoine’s Restaurant at one. We have the room all afternoon for discussions. After lunch, our group and their legal team will reconvene at this office. What we don’t finish up Tuesday night we can complete on Wednesday morning.”

“Where are they staying?” Tony asks.

“At the Monteleone, where you and Carl are. It makes logistics with the limo service easier, and everyone loves the Carousel Bar.” “Carl, I’d invite you and Tony for dinner tonight, but I really need to get some rest and review these agreements. If you don’t mind, I’ll leave you two on your own.”

“We’re good with that. Shall we meet here in the morning, say ten?” Carl suggests.

“That would be good. We can then head to Antoine’s to receive Scotty and his team when they arrive. Uncle Fabio will meet us at the restaurant. Meyer had to stay in Vegas and won’t attend, but everything on the Ras Al Khaimah and Dubai side is good.”

192

As told by Luigi Falconi to John Dragonetti

**** Tuesday April 13, 1965

Organizing a proper reception line at the entrance to their private dining room, Luigi positions Uncle Fabio first, then Tony and Carl.

Gently placing his hands on Uncle Fabio’s shoulders, Lou guides him to the front of the line. Just two CEO’s meeting to do a business deal, he recalls his words from last week’s lunch conversation with Tony.

Catching sight of a tall, well-built man of about sixty heading toward them, Lou’s first impression radar kicks in. The man is big, about three inches above six feet, and handsome with a full head of well-styled white hair, and in great shape for his age. Impeccably dressed but casually attired, with a smart sports coat, slacks, and cashmere sweater. Nice watch but no other jewelry. He reminds him of an older version of his cousin Frankie, confident in his gait and projecting an ‘in charge’ persona. This man will be a formidable opponent.

Lou steps forward and presents his hand. “Mr. La Rouche, welcome to our town, New Orleans,” he says. The power in the older man’s grip doesn’t go unnoticed. “Please let me introduce you to my Uncle Fabio.” As the two Capos talk, Lou introduces himself to the rest of the Canuck team.

Once the introductions are over, Uncle Fabio, always the genial host, personally guides Scotty to his assigned seat at the foot of the table and then takes his place at the head. Scotty’s three associates are guided to their side of the table while Tony and Carl sit on the other side with Lou, who takes the seat next to Scotty. With the battle lines drawn, the contest, as dictated by casual conversation, begins.

Uncle Fabio taps on the crystal wine glass with a butter knife to silence the banter. Taking off his Capo hat, he puts on his 193

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chairman charm. “Gentlemen and lady,” he says, not wanting to ignore Scotty’s attractive assistant, Marie Montaigne. “We are delighted to host this luncheon as a tribute to our future relationship with ourselves and our partners in the Middle East.

Please enjoy.”

Like all meals at Antione’s, the food and wine are impeccable, and the conversation between the two groups informative on the business side and close to bonding on the relationship side. Lou leaves the luncheon feeling comfortable that Majid has made a good choice. **** While Uncle Fabio entertains Scotty and introduces him to Bourbon Street, Preservation Hall, the Old Absinthe House bar, and other delights of New Orleans; the six worker bees grind late into the night at Lou’s office, finalizing the agreements for the consortium, twenty-five percent for the Ras Al Khaimah group, twenty-five percent for the Dubai group and fifty percent for CPC under the name of a newly formed offshore company called Canuck Gulf Petroleum Ltd. (CGP).

Next on the agenda is the Concession Agreement to be presented to the Ruler of Ras Al Khaimah. As expected, Canuck’s legal team has the draft prepared and just needs to fill in the name of the new subsidiary CGP consortium. Reviewing the clauses, Lou is satisfied seeing the terms for the Government of Ras Al Khaimah are what he promised the Ruler, a one million US dollar signing bonus, the five percent overriding royalty on production, and a fifty percent share of net profits after cost recovery by the consortium.

At midnight, the two sides agree to call it a night and reconvene at noon on Wednesday to review the partnership agreements so that they can be signed.

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**** Wednesday April 14, 1965

The meeting is brief, just a few i’s to dot and t’s to cross.

“Well, gang, looks like this phase of our job is done,” Lou announces. “I have power of attorney to sign the partnership agreements on behalf of both the Dubai and Ras Al Khaimah partners.”

“I can sign for Scotty,” Marie says.

“Great, let’s do this.” Reaching for the multiple copies, Tony begins signing the stack of documents and passes them on to Marie.

Carl and the CPC lawyer review them to make sure all signatures are in order.

“Regarding the concession, I’ll need to pass this by our partners and the Ruler’s advisor in Ras Al Khaimah. Once we receive their approval, we’ll schedule our trip to have a signing ceremony with the Ruler.”

Addressing his finance specialist, Lou asks, “Tony, have you worked out details of the loans to the parent company, CPC and the new subsidiary for Ras AL Khaimah, CGP, for the bonus and other financial arrangements?”

“All set, Lou.” Marie Montaigne, Scotty’s assistant, clears her throat.

“Easter weekend is coming up. Can we make sure the meeting is after Easter Monday so we can spend time with our families?”

“Yes, please,” Carl says. “Easter is a big day for my family in London too.”

“Of course. Our friends in the Middle East may be Muslims, but they are very tolerant and respectful of other religions. I’m sure they will be happy to defer to our Christian needs.”

“I’ll shoot for the week of May eighth through thirteenth.

Let’s all mark that on our calendars now. I’ll confirm as soon as 195

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possible.” Lou looks around at the group. “Again, my thanks to all of you. Please enjoy the rest of your day seeing N’awlins, as we locals call it.”

As the meeting breaks, Tony approaches Lou. “I’m taking Marie on a tour of the town. Can you join us?”

“Thanks for the invite, but I have a meeting with Scotty and Uncle Fabio at his office at the Town and Country Motel later.

Right now, he’s taking Scotty on an airboat ride to give him a close-up view of Louisiana swamp life.”

Tony’s face pales. Could the stories I read about Fabio putting the fear of God into city slickers by pulling out a gun and shooting randomly in the water at gators be true? I hope this isn’t one of those trips.

“Are you okay, Tony?” Lou asks. “You look ill.”

“No, I’m fine, just a bit of indigestion.”

“Let me know if you need anything.”

“Will do,” he replies as he wipes his sweating brow with his silk hankie. **** “Scotty, good to see you,” Lou greets the CPC Chairman.

“Have you had a chance to talk to your team?”

“I have, and it seems like everything is ready to go.”

“Come and sit,” Uncle Fabio orders his nephew.

“You can’t believe the tour your uncle took me on this morning. He knows those swamplands and waterways like the back of his hand.”

Remembering the newspaper article and Tony’s reaction earlier when he mentioned the swamp tour, the hair on the back of Lou’s neck rises. Oh, no, here it comes. Please, God, don’t let me hear that Uncle Fabio started shooting his gun at gators in the water to frighten Scotty. Lou clears his head and tunes back in to Scotty’s description of the excursion.

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“We had a great time. It was amazing, seeing the vast array of wildlife these wetlands harbor. I must have counted ten gators.

I’m so pleased to hear that you and your family contribute to keeping this environment as natural as God intended. “I’ve done a lot of bird shooting in Scotland and Canada, but the number of ducks I saw today surpasses the number of pheasant I’ve seen in any of my shoots, and it’s not even duck season.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” Fabio says.

Relieved, Lou relaxes and uses the bird talk as the opportunity to present an idea he’s had since his desert visit to Shaikh Saqr’s camp. “We need to bring a special gift to both Shaikh Saqr in Ras Al Khaimah and to Shaikh Rashid in Dubai. I’ve been doing some research and have an idea for the perfect gift, and, best of all, it comes from Canada. Trust me, if we pull this off, you’ll have every Ruler in the Arabian Gulf wanting to give you oil concessions.”

Sharing the idea with the two Chairmen, Scotty the oilman replies, “It may be doable, but we’ll need to travel to Dubai in my Learjet. We can’t use commercial cargo. It will be expensive, but I’ll just charge the flight to CGP company expenses.”

“Tight bastard, I should have left him for the gators,” Fabio mutters under his breath. Controlling his temper, Fabio replies loudly in a brash tone, “Don’t worry about the cost. We already agreed to fund expenses!”

“Then it’s settled. I notified your team to block May ninth through the thirteenth for the signing. That should give you time to get things organized,” Lou says to Scotty. “I just need to get confirmation.”

Standing up, Fabio dismisses the two men like a principal discharges delinquent schoolboys from his office. “Luigi, can you arrange for a car to take Mr. La Rouche back to his hotel and then meet me at my NOLA Vending office?”

“Of course. My pleasure.”

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**** Later that day as Luigi enters NOLA Vending, he sees a familiar face sitting in the reception area.

“Luigi, how are you? It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you.”

“Nero Santoro, how are you? It was only a few weeks ago that I was talking about you with my Uncle Fabio.”

“Yes, he told me that he needed to see me when you were in town.”

“Please, have a seat while I see my uncle for a few minutes.”

Addressing the receptionist, Lou asks, “Can you get Mr. Santoro a coffee please?” and disappears into Uncle Fabio’s office.

After Lou’s greeting, Uncle Fabio looks at him. “Did you forget we had business with the Fiddler before you leave town?”

“No, Zio, I was planning to talk to you about it tomorrow.”

Uncle Fabio smiles, “Remember Ben Franklin. ‘Never put off until tomorrow, what you can do today.’ Business first. Now, tell me why you need Nero and his team in Dubai?”

Luigi explains the situation with the land needed for McDermott Arabian Gulf and the warehouses, as well as the financial rescue of the Ruler and his business leaders. He spells out the details of the plan and the benefits to the family, as well as Majid’s agreement.

After listening carefully, Fabio says, “Nero knows insurance.

He was once VP of a big insurance company but found he had a flare for flaring. Ha, ha. Good play on words for a man whose English is his second language. And he makes a lot of money doing it.”

Smiling at his uncle’s wordplay, Luigi asks, “What’s his fee on this type of deal?”

“It’s usually ten percent of the insurance payout, but he’ll agree to five percent plus expenses for him and his team. I’ll leave it to you to tell him what the project is and the details.”

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Picking up his phone, he presses the intercom. “Joann, please send Mr. Santoro in.”

Standing, Uncle Fabio greets his guest. “Nero, glad you could come. Have you ever been to the Middle East?”

“No, sir, but I love to travel, and it could be an interesting place to visit.”

“Luigi has a job for you there. If you don’t mind, I have another meeting. Luigi will explain all of the details to you.

Please feel comfortable using my office.”

Standing, Luigi kisses his uncle on both cheeks. “Ciao, Zio.” “We’ll talk before you leave,” Zio Fabio says as he departs.

Taking his uncle’s desk chair, Luigi tells Nero about the project, number and size of warehouses, contents, etc. “I need these warehouses and contents to totally incinerate.”

“Sounds like a three-man job for a Class-C petroleum, grease, or gas fire. When do you want us in Dubai?”

“I need you to arrive on the MEA flight from Beirut the evening of April twenty-sixth. You’ll have reservations for three rooms under your name at the Airport Hotel. You will pose as a team of three business partners who own a company that builds warehouse facilities for oil and gas companies. I’ll arrange for someone to take you to do your reconnaissance of the target warehouses the next morning.”

“What about procuring our materials?”

“This same person will assist you. You’ll do your deed on the night of the twenty-ninth and depart on the five a.m. MEA flight to Beirut on the thirtieth. Understood? I need copies of everyone’s passports for visas ASAP.” Nero leans in, his eyes filled with anticipation. “So, what’s the expected share for me?”

Lou, well aware of the insurance sum totaling eight million, answered with a confident smile, “You’ll be looking at five percent of the six million insurance payout, plus any necessary expenses. Given the distance, we can arrange first-class flights 199

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for you,” he added, a hint of generosity in his voice, his offer serving as solace for the small twinge of guilt he felt about manipulating the additional two million from the insurance claim and saving the family a hundred grand.

“It’s a deal,” Nero responds and stands, offering his hand to Luigi, sealing the agreement with a shake. “I’ll get the passports and list of materials I’ll need to you in two days.”

200

Chapter 16 Back in Dubai Wednesday April 21, 1965

As soon as the Easter weekend is over, Lou departs for Dubai, with a quick stop in Beirut to meet Albert Abuzian regarding design and fitting out of the casino in Ras Al Khaimah and his bar in Dubai.

The signing ceremony for the oil concession is confirmed for May thirteenth, and Lou needs time to prepare for the event, as well as meetings with Toufiq and Majid to have them sign their partnership agreements.

Arriving in Beirut, Lou realizes what a beautiful time of the year spring is in Lebanon. Entering any casino in the midafternoon when the gambling floors are almost empty and the machines virtually silent is like going into a church long after daily services are over. The Casino du Liban is Lou’s kind of church, and he is excited at the prospect of being the minister of his own Ras Al Khaimah cathedral.

He takes the elevator up to Albert’s office and knocks on the door, which is immediately opened. “I guess you saw me coming,” Lou says, smiling at Albert and pointing to the oneway glass wall. “How have you been?” he asks.

“Doing great, just as I hear you’re doing,” Albert responds.

“Come, let’s sit at the conference table. The contractor should be joining us soon.”

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Taking a seat, Lou asks, “Did Frankie get off okay?”

“He’s making a stop in Paris. Seems one of his school friends invited him to her parents’ country home. Hopefully, he’ll make it back to start his professional oilfield diving training program in August,” Albert says with a laugh.

Lou shakes his head and smiles. “That’s Frankie. He’ll be home by the Fourth of July—his mother’s orders.”

Reaching for the phone on the table, Albert pushes the blinking red light. “Our contractor has arrived. We’re meeting the top man in charge of the Levant, Egypt, and the Gulf for bin Ladin Engineering and Construction, the biggest such company in the Middle East. They’re based in Saudi Arabia but have offices worldwide, even in the USA.” As the contractor enters Albert’s office, out of force of habit, Lou mentally assesses the figure. A tall, good-looking man with a full, manicured, jet black beard—recently dyed, according to the black smudge barely visible below the front hairline. He wants to appear younger, not for business but for the ladies.

Since he’s already the boss, there’s no need to impress clients as he probably gets most of his contracts like this one on referral.

“Lou, please let me introduce Mr. Ahmed bin Ladin.”

“My pleasure,” Ahmed says as he offers his hand.

“As-salaamu aleekum,” Lou responds as they shake.

Smiling, Ahmed says, “Amazing, the Arab offers an introduction in English, and the American offers it in Arabic.

You don’t know how much just that small gesture means to us Gulf and Saudi Arabs. It shows that you respect our culture and language. Most businessmen don’t seem to understand that.

Like your Civil War era Carpetbaggers, they just swoop in, do their business, and fly out—not interested in us or our country, just the contract.”

“You know about our Civil War history. Impressive,” Lou says.

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“Engineering degree from the University of Texas. A great country you have. A bit too liberal for our Saudi leaders, but I had a great time there. Stretched a four-year degree into six,” Ahmed states with an infectious laugh.

“Gentlemen, “Albert announces, “Please excuse me. I have business to attend to. I’ve asked for tea and coffee to be sent up,” he says and departs.

“Would you mind signing a confidentiality agreement?” Lou asks.

“Not at all. This is quite normal for many of our clients, especially governments.”

Briefing Ahmed on the projects, Lou unrolls the drawings on the conference table. “These are for both the Ras Al Khaimah Hotel Casino and the space allotted in the Dubai Bustan Hotel for the Ten Tola.”

After perusing the plans, Ahmed and Lou exchange questions and answers on interior elevations, room finishings, and utilities.

“Please note,” Lou adds, “that your contract will include some sophisticated utility ducting and work, similar to what you’ve provided here for Albert at the casino.” He looks at the man across from him. “Can you have the casino control center in Ras Al Khaimah ready in six months, Mr. bin Ladin?”

“I’m sure we can,” Ahmed responds. “The interior structural part is easy. It’s the procurement and installation of cabling and video and listening equipment that will take time. We may have to send our man to Germany or Japan to get what we need.

Unfortunately, in this Cold War environment, every country in the world is buying listening and video equipment. We may have to bump the Iranian security police SAVAK, but for the right price we can move to the front of the line.”

“Don’t forget the equipment for the office in the Ten Tola also. That will need to be installed after the Ruler’s contractor finishes the structural work, six months at the most. Let’s meet 203

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in Dubai next week to visit the construction sites and to finalize the drawings and contracts. Will that work for you?”

“I will be in Saudi then. It’s a quick trip over, so that will work out fine.”

“Great, we’ll be in touch.”

Having completed his meeting, Lou spends a relaxing few days in Beirut. He frequents the Wellington Pub that Frankie introduced him to for an afternoon pint, and even tries the Les Caves du Roy again, but finds nightclubbing is no fun when you’re alone. Preferring the casino atmosphere, he spends his evening observing the operations at the Casino du Liban. **** Saturday Morning April 24, 1965

Needing someone he can trust to meet Nero Santoro, Lou invites his new DOODS partner, Tim Johnson, for breakfast at his hotel in Dubai before he departs for Ras Al Khaimah.

Lou waits until they finish eating before talking business.

“Tim, I need your help with two contractors who are arriving from the USA on Monday to look at building some warehouses in Dubai. Could you meet them at the airport, get them settled in their hotel, and then take them around town on Tuesday morning? They’ve specifically asked that we show them the old government warehouse structures on the end of the Creek.”

“Sure, Lou. Happy to do anything I can to help.”

“Can we keep this between us for now?”

“It may be good for them to meet Iskar, as he’s involved with Majid in granting building contracts for the government.”

“It would be best not to let him know. I’ve already discussed this with Majid, and I don’t want Iskar to think I’m going around him. You know how sensitive he can be.”

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Tim looks at Lou with a quizzical look. “Iskar sensitive?

Shit, he never cares about anything but himself.”

“Well, that’s even a better reason not to tell him. They will also need help buying some items in the local market.”

“I’ll give them a tour of the souk for souvenirs to take home.”

“It will be a different kind of shopping. I have a partial list here, but there may be additional items they may ask for. I trust you can also keep this between us. My family and I have a great respect for trust in our relationships with business partners.”

Knowing of the Falconi family reputation, Tim nods. “Yes, sir, my lips are sealed, partner.”

“Thank you.” Taking out his pen, Lou writes a name on top of the materials list and hands it to Tim. “Here is the name of the gentleman you’re to meet and a list of some of the things he needs. He’ll be staying at the Airport Hotel.”

Tim takes the paper and looks at it. “Nero Santoro. Isn’t he the guy who played his fiddle while Rome burned?” he asks jokingly. Without a reply or even a smile from Lou, Tim awkwardly folds the piece of paper and puts it in his shirt pocket.

“I’ll be at the Hotel Ras Al Khaimah for the next few nights, back on the twenty-eighth. Call if you need me, and tell Iskar I’d like to have dinner with you and him on the twenty-ninth. You two choose the venue.” **** Saturday Afternoon April 24, 1965

Arriving at Toufiq’s Ras Al Khaimah office later that afternoon, the two businessmen review the wording of the Concession Agreement with Lou pointing out that the financial and other terms he promised Shaikh Saqr would be included.

Completing their task, Lou entrusts the documents to Toufiq to 205

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be translated and typed in the same side-by-side format as the sacred letter the Ruler granted to Lou. “Can we have the document bound in black leather with gold lettering—with the Ruler’s seal or emblem on the cover?”

“Of course. We want it to be worthy of His Highness’ status,” replies Toufiq.

“One more thing. You’ve confirmed the British have given approval of the exploration rights?”

“Correct. As long as we don’t impede on Sharjah’s threemile limit of Abu Mussa Island, they’re happy. I can’t wait until these meddlesome colonials are out of our business for good.”

“What if we request the presence of the British Resident Officer to witness the document? Is this possible?” Lou asks.

Toufiq leans back in his chair, impressed with Lou’s understanding of the political climate and proposed strategy.

“Having them present—and even signing as a witness—is a great idea. Let me speak to Shaikh Saqr. He was able to get their support for the concession, so, basically, he’s just inviting the Resident Officer to attend the signing ceremony. When we ask him to sign as a witness in front of everyone, it will be hard for that stuffy Brit to refuse.”

“I’ll leave that in your expert diplomatic hands,” Lou smiles.

“I’ll be staying in town for the next few days for meetings with the contractor regarding the casino. Call me anytime at the Hotel Ras Al Khaimah if you have any questions.” **** Tuesday, April 27, 1965

The Hotel Ras Al Khaimah will soon be the temporary quarters for the casino until a new, purpose-built casino complex can be built in two years. Staying at the hotel gives Lou a chance to do a detailed reconnaissance of the building and potential sites 206

As told by Luigi Falconi to John Dragonetti

for the new hotel.

As he arrives at the Ruler’s office security gate, Lieutenant Sweeney is in his vehicle ready to leave.

“Lieutenant, how are you?” Lou greets as he stands next to the passenger side of the Rover.

“Mr. Falconi, welcome,” Sweeney says. “What brings you back here?”

“I have meetings tomorrow, and I wanted to see if I could track down my friends Abdulla and Mohammed. I’d like to see how they’re doing.”

“They’re both doing well. I’ll get word to them that you’re here. Where are you staying?”

“At the Hotel Ras Al Khaimah. How is your schedule? Can we get together for a sundowner?”

“Free in the evening. I can come by about seven.”

“Great. See you then.” **** Promptly at seven p.m., as expected of a military man, Sweeney enters the hotel lobby and joins Lou sitting in the corner of the lobby.

Standing to greet his guest, Lou offers his hand. “Welcome, Lieutenant.”

“Please call me Sam. I’m off duty now—and soon will be permanently.”

“What do you mean permanently?”

“I’ve decided to leave the service. I’ve given ten years to Her Majesty, mostly in the Middle East. I have a great network of contacts in the region, and I speak fluent Arabic. Seeing what’s happening in this area, I’ve decided to pursue opportunities in Dubai.”

Surprised at the revelation, Lou says, “We need to drink to that. What type of opportunity are you looking for?”

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“You know us Brits. Throughout history, many low-level bureaucrats and military men became wealthy in Hong Kong, India, and other colonies. That’s where my family’s money came from—tea plantations in India. As the oldest male, my brother inherited the family title and lands, so I need to build my own nest. My military skills could be helpful, but I prefer the private sector, keeping close to the oil business.”

“What’s the political situation here? And how are your relations with the British and American political officials in the area?”

“The British have been protectors of these Gulf states since the first Maritime Truce in 1820. With the influx of both British and American oil companies, there’s talk that the Labor Government in England would like to withdraw militarily within a few years and let the Americans take on more of the responsibility and cost. I think the future is with the Americans.”

Sam pauses. “As to your question, I have been the front man, almost a pseudo-military attaché—without the credentials— since I’ve been here. I have contacts in intelligence on all sides of the Gulf.”

“We need to talk. You know my involvement in the oil business. My family is a large business conglomerate, Argent Corporation, which has assets in oil and gas construction and service boat businesses, as well as in the gaming industry. We’re opening companies here and in Dubai. You may have heard about the casino I’m opening here in Ras Al Khaimah. I’m also establishing a bar in Dubai, the target clientele being the oil and gas industry personnel.”

“You’ve just rubbed the magic lamp,” Sam says. “Do you know how much intelligence you can obtain in a place like that?

It’s worth millions.”

Lou nods. “I’m not looking for a manager of the Ten Tola, but a partner. We’d hire a food and beverage guy for the actual operations. I need someone who can mingle with the customers, 208

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buy drinks, and gather information, becoming the go-to man for all the new people coming to Dubai. With your charm, personality, and experience, you’d be a great partner, and, to be honest, your military training and intelligence skills, as well as your political relationships could be a great asset to us.”

“I’d have to think about it. I’ve been living on a military salary, and I don’t have funds available for an equity position.”

“Not a problem. I’ll give you twenty-five percent ownership immediately and let you earn five percent equity yearly as a bonus, until we’re equal fifty-fifty partners.”

“Good God, Lou, that’s an offer you can’t refuse!”

Lou looks at Sam with a big smile. “That’s something my Uncle Fabio always says. Let’s meet up in Dubai after this oil concession deal is sealed, and we can talk details.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Sweeney says.

“Good. Time for that drink, my friend.” **** Thursday Evening April 29, 1965

That evening, Lou meets Iskar Tandoody and Tim Johnson, his new partners in the Dubai Offshore Oil Drilling Supply, for dinner at the Safari Club located on the ground floor of the Shaikha Latifa building just off Nassar Square in Deira.

“Wow! This place is packed. It looks like this is the only nightclub in town.”

“Don’t be fooled, Lou. There’s a lot going on in Dubai after dark. The Indian, African, and other Arab country nationals all have their places at night,” Tim says. “Ain’t that right, Iskar?”

Taking his cue, Iskar says, “It’s a small community, but you still need to know someone who knows someone to find out where the action is. The best places are the Indian clubs.”

Pausing to take a drag on his cigarette, he continues, “This club 209

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is where the few Western residents like to come.” Iskar smiles at Lou. “That is, until your place is open. The big draw here is the entertainment.”

Lou pulls his chair forward. “Gents, I need your help and our company resources to get organized for what’s coming. Work on the Ten Tola and the Casino will be starting soon. Since I’ll be traveling back and forth to Ras Al Khaimah and the USA, I need someone at each site to ride roughshod and act on our behalf to watch over the contractors at both sites. We call them Quantity Surveyor—I believe the Brits refer to them as Clerk of the Works.”

“Got you covered,” Tim replies. “We have some good Indian engineers we can assign. They just need drawings and whatever.”

“Great. We’ll have them meet the contractor and review the drawings when they’re in town.” Lou glances around. “Let’s eat.

What’s good on the menu here?”

Iskar raises his eyebrows. “This is a drinking and entertainment venue. Food’s not that great, so I pre-ordered a mezze, a mixture of local food, for all of us to pick on during the show.”

Seeing activity on the stage, Iskar stands. “Excuse me for a moment. I need to greet a friend.”

A few minutes later he returns to the table holding hands with a trim, medium height gentleman dressed in a black suit, white shirt, and red bow tie. His black, tightly curled short hair and beautiful white teeth that contrasts with his dark skin gives him a distinctive appearance.

“Lou, let me introduce you to my good friend, Abdullah Saleem Abdullah, better known professionally as Sal Davis. He sings just like Sammy Davis, Jr.” Both Tim and Lou stand. “Hi, Sal, nice to see you back in town,” Tim says before Lou can respond.

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“Sal, I’m Lou Falconi, pleased to meet you. I look forward to hearing you perform tonight. I’m considering opening a small bar and will be looking for good entertainment.”

“Who’s the targeted clientele?” Sal asks with a strong American accent.

“Hopefully, the Yankee oil folks moving in, but everyone will be welcome. Sounds like you spent time in the US.” “A bit. I’m originally from Mombasa, but my accent can be blamed on Sammy Davis and his songs that I cover—and my time in Los Angeles. We’ll do a few African favorites tonight so you can hear the real me.”

“I look forward to it. Can you join us for a drink before your set?”

“How about after, if you’re still here. I need to keep the cords alcohol-free for now.”

The pianist plays a medley of Sinatra tunes as Sal walks toward the stage. Grabbing the mic, he starts out with something light and then moves into the Blues, finally closing the Sinatra part of the show with love songs, encouraging couples to move to the dance floor.

“This guy is great. We definitely need to book him for the Ten Tola,” Lou comments to his tablemates.

By two a.m., the African favorites lead to a frenzy on the dance floor. Trying to talk over the loud music and pandemonium of singing and dancing patrons, an alcohol-free Tim yells, “Time for me to go.”

“Me too,” Lou shouts over the noise. “I’ve got work tomorrow. Iskar, what about you?”

“My flat is just across the street. We can walk out together.”

As the trio walk through the first set of exit doors, the sounds from inside diminish. Opening the second set of doors to the outside, they hear the blaring of police and fire vehicle sirens.

The flashing lights are headed toward the Maktoum Bridge.

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Above the skyline an eerie yellow/orange glow illuminates the night sky.

Always eager for excitement, Tim exclaims, “Looks like a big fire! Come on. Let’s check out what’s happening.” He and Lou hurry toward the road that runs along the Creek, with Iskar slowly strolling behind.

Jogging the two blocks past the retail shops and the Wimpey Hamburger restaurant, they reach the Creek and get a clear view down the waterway towards the bridge.

“Shit, Tim, it looks like it’s those warehouses you showed me on our tour when I first arrived. There won’t be anything left of them or whatever’s inside. Those poor traders and the Ruler will lose everything,” Lou says in a faux emotional lamentation.

He avoids looking at Tim. With a sly smile, Iskar looks directly at Lou. “Not everything.

When Mr. bin Jabir took over as Head of the Ports and Customs, he decided the government should offer protection for itself and the clients of the port who rented warehouse space by taking out storm and fire insurance from Lloyds of London. I thought it was a waste of money, but he insisted, so I negotiated the policy and paid the premiums for the last few years. We even increased the loss values recently. I don’t think Majid even told Shaikh Rashid about having them insured.”

“You’re a hero, Iskar,” Tim says. “I’ll bet nobody in Dubai knew what this insurance crap was and thought that guy Lloyds was the name of some salesman from London rather than a big London insurance company.”

Catching a perceptive look from Tim, Lou looks away and responds, “Tim’s right, Iskar. You should be proud you carried out Majid’s instructions. Thank God, you saved Dubai and its traders from a major economic disaster.”

“Come on, let’s go down there,” Tim encourages. “I’ll bet His Highness and bin Jabir are there now. Can’t ya see them?

Here’s the poor Ruler, in the middle of the night, watching those 212

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warehouses burn, tears dripping from his eyes. Next to him ol’ bin Jabir is smiling—or maybe he’s laughing.”

Tim holds his hands up in front of his face, thumbs rapidly clapping his index and middle fingers, and turns toward Lou, mimicking the conversation as if he were bin Jabir talking to the Ruler through his hands.

“I’d love to see the Ruler’s face when bin Jabir explains about insurance,” Tim goes on. “The Ruler will probably become more excited than a kid watching a Guy Fawkes bonfire. Bin Jabir’s happy, the Ruler’s happy, and the merchants are happy because they will be paid for all of their lost goods, and the government will have money to build some nice new modern warehouses to replace the old rickety firetraps.”

Joining in on Tim’s enthusiastic dissertation, Lou adds, “The best part is that Mr. Lloyd, that generous salesman in London, paid for all of it.”

“You should be happy, Iskar. Every merchant up and down the Gulf is praising ol’ bin Jabir tonight for being so fuckin’ smart, and you too, as his assistant, for taking out that insurance.”

Rather than fight the growing crowd, Lou leads his partners toward the abra dock and hires an abra to take them upstream toward the inferno, where for the next two hours they watch from their vantage point in the middle of the Creek as the fire crews fight desperately but in vain as the blaze incinerates the warehouses. Every time a new flow of high-pressure water is sprayed from their tanker truck, rather than extinguishing the flames, they seem to flare up even more.

“That’s almost like a grease or oil fire,” Tim says when he sees the mist rise from the water.

Above the now dwindling din of the fire, an airliner takes off. Looking up in the dimming firelight, Lou can see the MEA letters adorned on the tailfin. Lifting his wrist, he looks at his watch. “Five-ten a.m. gang. Time to go home.”

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Chapter 17 Birds of a Feather Wednesday May 12, 1965

With the intervention of Lieutenant Sweeney and Toufiq, Scotty La Rouche’s Learjet is given permission to land at the Royal Air Force Base in Sharjah, the closest airport to Ras Al Khaimah.

The five human and two feathered passengers depart the aircraft and are greeted by a late afternoon hot sun and dry breeze. Lou rushes them into the BOAC rest house until their onward helicopter flight to Ras Al Khaimah is ready. He offers cold drinks and the refreshing blowing air from the ceiling and other fans.

“Why in the hell couldn’t we have had this ceremony in London?” Scotty scowls. “The weather is beautiful there in the spring.”

Scotty’s sons, Duffy and Maccie, stand to the side of the room in puckered shirts. sweat dripping down their foreheads, talking with their father’s assistant, Marie.

Lou turns to Scotty. “We made it clear to you that by coming to them, we are paying homage to His Highness the Ruler of Ras Al Khaimah and his subjects. This show of respect and the gift you bear will be seen by all of the Rulers in the Gulf, opening remarkable opportunities for CPC and CGP, and for you personally, Scotty.”

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Taking on the role Uncle Fabio trained him for, Lou puts his face nose to nose with Scotty and presses his right index finger hard into his chest in an intimidating manner. “Just remember who brought you into this deal and whose money is behind it.

We can make you the biggest oilman in Canada—as long as you listen and do what we say. Or we can make you a nobody.”

His hand shaking, Scotty’s drink overflows the lip of his glass and drips onto his shirt.

Lou turns to the group. “Our helicopters are ready to take us to the Ruler’s guest house in Ras Al Khaimah. Scotty, Marie, and the cargo will come with me. The rest of you will go in the second chopper. Your pilots and luggage will be driven to the Hotel Ras Al Khaimah.”

Arriving at the guest house, the airconditioned lounge and bedrooms cool Scotty’s temperament. Entering the dining area that looks out on the sea mellows him even more.

“Lou, forgive me for my outburst at the airstrip. The flight from London was tiring, and the smell from our cargo wasn’t pleasant. It made me a bit testy. You’re right, we needed to come here.”

“I’m glad you see it our way,” Lou replies to Scotty with a look of disdain. Someday I’m going to drop that sanctimonious dough-head bastard in the bayou. “It will be over tomorrow, and you can head back to London. The signing will be a simple ceremony followed by a small lunch at the Ruler’s Palace. Our partners and I agreed that we didn’t want a showy reception or dinner, just a low-key private affair. The only guests will be the British Resident Officer, Majid bin Jabir, and the Ruler’s son, Shaikh Khalil, the Crown Prince, and his sons Shaikh Hamid and Shaikh Saud. Toufiq Abdul Kazim, the Ruler’s advisor and a few other officials will also attend.”

Lou glances at his watch. “Because of the heat, we’ll have the ceremony at eleven a.m., followed by lunch. Dinner is being brought in for us tonight to assure that we get a good night’s rest.

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I’ll be going to the hotel after dinner. I gave my airconditioned bedroom to your cargo and their attendant. They need the cooler environment.”

Looking through the sliding glass doors at the blue water, Lou says, “I can’t pass up a chance for a swim in Gulf,” and invites Marie, Duffy, and Maccie to join him for a sunset swim.

“I’m in,” comes the chorus of voices.

“What about you, Scotty? Will you join us?” Lou asks in a gesture of forgiveness.

“You young folks go ahead. I’m going to my room to shower and read before dinner.” **** Dinner is a simple affair on the patio. The evening sea breeze makes for a comfortable setting.

“I couldn’t get the shower water to cool off, and I had only the cold faucet on. Hot water was coming from both faucets. Did anyone else have that problem?” Maccie asks.

“My apologies. I forgot to tell you. In the hot months, starting now, the water in the storage tanks on the roof becomes very hot from the sun, so you need to reverse faucets. The cold faucet is fed by the roof tanks and is now the hot water. The water heaters inside the villa are shut off in the summer, so the hot faucet is fed by the water from the indoor heater, which is the cooler water.”

“Makes sense to me now that you’ve explained it.” Marie flashes her Hollywood smile.

“Folks, I’m off to the hotel; we have an early morning,” Lou says. “Your cars will arrive at ten-thirty a.m. I’ll meet you at the Ruler’s office as I need to be there early to make sure everything is in order.”

“How can I contact you?” Scotty asks, feeling uncomfortable in the foreign surroundings.

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“My phone and room number are on cards on the bedside tables in your bedroom. Just call if you need anything. Have a good night’s sleep.” **** Thursday May 13, 1965

Arriving at the Ruler’s office, Lou is greeted by Mohammed and Abdulla. Giving both the now familiar and comfortable three-cheek greeting, the two security guards walk with Lou to meet Toufiq.

“Are you both on duty today?” he asks casually as they walk.

“Officially, Abdulla is still on medical leave, but he insists on being here.”

Abdulla grins at hearing his name and puts his fisted arms in the air, reminding Lou of the Charles Atlas ads on the back of comic books he read as a kid, “Qawiyy, Strong,” he declares in Arabic and English.

Mohammed smiles. “It’s a big day for His Highness. The British Political Officer is even coming, so some of the British Defense Force team will join our security team.”

“You’re not expecting any problems, are you?” Lou inquires of Mohammed.

“Of course not, but better to be cautious than sorry. We learned our lesson with you in the Musandam by entering an area with rebel activity before we made sure it was clear. It’s wise to be vigilant.”

“I understand, but it seems that you and your security team are doing a great job. I know how much His Highness appreciates both of you.”

At their destination, Lou joins Toufiq to go over all the details, from who sits where to what photos they want the photographer to take and film and which pens are to be used.

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“Shaikh Saqr is in his office with his sons. It seems the Crown Prince has some questions on the Arabic translations,” Toufiq informs Lou. “You’ll have to handle that, Toufiq, I can’t help you on that one.”

“I know it’s just a performance on Shaikh Khalil’s part. He wants to show his brothers who the boss will be. Don’t worry, it’ll work out; best that I stay out of it for now.”

Looking at his Rolex, Lou announces, “It’s almost time. You get the Ruler in place in his majlis, while I receive the CPC/CGP team.”

Before Scotty and his entourage arrive, the British Resident Officer, the Honorable Archibald Stuart, in true British fashion arrives precisely at eleven a.m. and is escorted into the majlis by two British soldiers followed by two of the Ruler’s guards.

The Crown Prince, Shaikh Khalil, stands, approaches the Resident Officer, and guides him to the chair on the Ruler’s left.

As this is going on, members of the Ruler’s family and a few other tribesmen enter and are directed to seating on both sides of the room, while Majid, Scotty’s sons, and Marie are directed to special seating.

Scotty, in a Saville Row suit and flanked on the left by Lou and on the right by a falcon handler from Canada, enters the majlis. On the leather-gloved, right arm of the falconer sits an exquisite pure white Canadian Gyrfalcon, a type of falcon that only breeds on the Artic coast and the islands of northern North America, as well as the Euro-Siberian regions. Bigger than the peregrines of the Gulf, the Gyrfalcon is an endangered species, only allowed to leave Canada by special permit.

Seeing the falcon, the first of its kind ever brought to the Gulf, the guests in the majlis, usually sedate and soft spoken, erupt in uncontrolled excitement and chatter. The court photographer hovers near the handler, but far enough away not to arouse the hooded bird.

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In the excitement, Scotty forgets the speech he prepared and simply says to Shaikh Saqr, “Your Highness, a gift to you from my company and the people of Canada.”

On the sidelines, mumbling can be heard as the English speakers translate to their Arabic speaking brothers what has just been said, while the Falconer holds the bird close to the Ruler for him to inspect his very special gift.

The Ruler, now standing, is enthralled by the white bird and seems more interested in it than welcoming his guest. Finally redirecting his attention to Scotty, the Ruler welcomes him to the seat on his right.

In his careful English, the Ruler thanks Scotty and Canada.

Toufiq then translates the chit chat between the Ruler and Scotty, until approached by Lou, who indicates that the signing needs to commence.

Toufiq nods his head to Shaikh Saqr, signifying that it is time to move into the private office.

Clasping Scotty’s hand and making sure the falcon is following, the Ruler walks toward his office while Toufiq escorts the Rulers’ sons and the Political Officer, as Lou guides Majid and the representatives of the Canadian oil companies.

In the office, the falcon trainer perches the bird on the back of one of the wooden chairs away from the conference table, in view of the Ruler but far enough away to avoid the flashing lights of the photographer.

Majid is drawn to the beautiful falcon and stands near it, admiring the gift.

Lou walks up behind him. “I know what you’re thinking.

I’m way ahead of you. We brought two falcons—the second for Shaikh Rashid in Dubai.”

Without turning to address him, Majid, looking at the Gyrfalcon, replies, “You’re a good partner, Lou. Thinking outside the box all the time.”

“When can we meet him to give him his gift?” Lou asks.

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“Friday, after his afternoon prayers. Come to my house, and I’ll take us to see His Highness.”

“Scotty and his team are leaving tomorrow. I’ve arranged for the falcon handler to stay for a week to train Shaikh Saqr’s handler to become acquainted with the bird and take over as trainer. We’ll need to do the same in Dubai.”

“He’ll need to come with us on Friday, and I’ll get Iskar to arrange for someone to take over before he returns to Canada.

Come, we need to join the others,” Majid prompts.

Once everyone is seated, Toufiq brings the leather-bound agreement and a gold Mont Blanc to His Highness at the head of the conference table and opens the agreement to the page requiring his signature. Once the signature is blotted, he then places the document in front of Scotty, who also signs using his own Cartier pen.

Casually taking the document to the Honorable Political Officer, he places it in front of him and points to the witness line. “Will you do His Highness the honor of witnessing this momentous agreement?”

Surprised, yet politically savvy to know refusing would be an insult, Archibald looks at Toufiq with dagger-like eyes, but takes the pen and reluctantly signs.

As the Ruler and Scotty exchange pens, Toufiq approaches the stunned Political Officer and, with a malicious smile, offers Archibald the cheap Schaffer pen that he used to sign as witness to the agreement, “A souvenir to remember the occasion.”

After the ritual of presenting the draft for the two million dollar signing bonus to the Ruler and short speeches from Scotty and the Ruler, the guests are escorted to lunch.

As they make their way towards the banquet room, the Ruler slowly takes a step back, creating some distance between himself and Scotty, joining Toufiq and Lou. He firmly clasps Lou’s hand while engaging in a conversation with Toufiq in Arabic. With a 220

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broad smile, he fixes his gaze upon Lou as Toufiq translates his words.

In impeccable English, the advisor expounds upon the Ruler’s sentiments for Lou. “His Highness acknowledges that, much like his own name Saqr, your name, Falconi in English, signifies ‘falcon.’ He recalls your profound fascination with the falcon demonstration at his hunting camp two months ago and recognizes that the magnificent gift bestowed upon him today truly originated from you. Therefore, he proclaims that since he is named Falcon, he shall henceforth refer to you as Abyäd Saqr the White Falcon.”

Moisture wells up in Lou’s eyes as he smiles at Shaikh Saqr. For a brief moment, he finds himself at a loss for words.

However, with a newfound sense of pride, he finally manages to articulate his thoughts, saying, “Your Highness, I am deeply honored to share a name with you, and I sincerely thank you for this incredible distinction you have bestowed upon me.

My family and I eagerly anticipate a lasting and meaningful friendship with you and your family.”

Hand in hand, the two Falcons proceed to lunch together. **** Back at the guest house, Lou breaks open the Champagne.

“That went well. Short and sweet, just as planned,” he says as he hands Scotty a glass of bubbly. Holding the concession agreement up in the air in his left hand, Lou offers a toast: “To many more signing ceremonies.” **** Friday May 14, 1965

Following Majid’s Rolls Royce onto the now familiar sabkha and sand track toward Zabeel Palace, Lou drives carefully and 221

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tries to avoid the big bumps so as not to startle the hooded Canadian falcon in the backseat with its trainer.

Arriving at the blue and white building, both vehicles stop in front of the main entrance. After organizing his bird and perch, as well as putting on his leather glove, the handler follows Lou and Majid up the marble steps to the two large doors and into the palace.

The same rifle-bearing guards that lined the halls during Lou’s last visit are on duty and lose all semblance of military discipline as they strain to get a close look at the white Gyrfalcon.

Walking through His Highness’s large general majlis, three men and one bird parade walk directly to Shaikh Rashid’s private office, leaving behind the same uncontrolled excitement and chatter between visitors as was heard in the Ras Al Khaimah majlis.

The Ruler, sitting at his desk chair, immediately rises when he sees the exquisite creature perched on the leather-gloved right arm of the falconer.

“Mash ‘Allah,” cries out the surprised and elated sovereign as he examines the falcon.

Using Majid to translate, Lou explains that it is a gift from his Uncle Carlos and the families who have been allowed to invest in Dubai’s future.

Standing next to Rashid and surrounded by his sons, Maktoum, Hamdan, Mohammed, and Ahmed, as well as Rashid’s young half-brother Ahmed bin Saeed, Majid explains about the Artic habitat of the rare and valuable species of white Gyrfalcon found only in Canada, North America, and the EuroSiberian regions.

Realizing that the Ruler’s interest is not in his human visitors, Majid arranges for the Canadian falconer to stay with the bird until the new trainer can take over, and motions for Lou that it is time to leave.

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Standing outside in front of Majid’s car, Lou comments, “I guess he liked his present.”

“That bird will get you more wasta with the Ruler than any other gift or person could have done,” replies Majid. “Use it wisely.” **** Monday May 18, 1965

Receiving Sam at the entrance of the Dubai Airport Hotel, Lou gives him a genuine handshake and man-hug. “I thought having an evening dinner meeting would be more comfortable than lunch. I hope the drive from Sharjah wasn’t difficult.”

“Not at all. Actually, I came by helicopter. There is an unusually high tide and the drive along the sabkha tracks would have been almost impassable. I checked with the flight officer and received permission to hitch a ride on one of the Defense Force helicopters heading to the Dubai airport. They prefer flying in the late afternoon when it’s cooler. In the heat of the afternoon, the thin, hot air reduces oxygen for combustion in a helicopter’s engine, affecting power and lift-off capability. Not ideal for the engines.”

“Aerodynamics, another of your knowledge skills that will come in handy in our business relationship.” Taking Sam’s hand like they were locals, Lou guides him to the dining room, where the waiter ushers them to the quiet corner table reserved for them.

“Can I offer you a drink?” the waiter asks before the guests have even been seated.

Sam immediately picks up on the gaffe of waitstaff protocol and says to Lou. “We’ll make sure our servers wait until our Ten Tola guests are comfortably seated before we push the booze.”

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“Sounds like you’re ready to join the ranks of the civilian business community?”

“I think so. But I’m concerned that managing a bar won’t have the challenges I’m accustomed to in the military.”

“It appears this meeting is timely. I’ve spoken to my Uncle Fabio about the lag of time before the new companies we’re bringing into Dubai like MOM and McDermott are operational.

Although their management are already working on the moves, they need time to prepare. It will be a year before these companies and the Ten Tola are ready to fully operate. Their management knows how to mobilize and get business running, but they need a liaison between themselves and the governments of Dubai and RAK. As our family will be partners with all of them, I have a lot of juggling to do between financial institutions, lawyers, and the boards of these companies. I need a Man Friday–someone I can depend upon as my right-hand, and most importantly, someone I can trust to take over and be my voice when I’m not here.

Looking confused, Sam responds, “Are you asking me to take on this role in addition to the Ten Tola Partnership?”

Moving his face closer to Sam’s, Lou smiles and looks into his eyes. “Actually, I am. I know it’s a lot, but you’re used to multitasking. The military has trained you to do exactly what I’m asking you to do—manage many things at once. However, unlike the military, we will generously compensate you.”

Smiling back, Sam holds Lou’s stare. “Are you sure you’re not just trying to escape the summer heat? It can be pretty miserable with the ninety percent humidity and boiling temperatures.”

“I guess I never thought of that. Sorry. but the offer is rescinded.”

Sam’s eyebrows furrow and his face pales. Lou breaks out in a laugh. “For you, my friend, I would endure the heat of hell.

With short breaks to the Mediterranean or other getaways, of course.”

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“You’ll find that business really slows down in the summer months,” Sam explains. “Offices are open from seven in the morning until one in the afternoon, Saturday through Thursday.

Commercial activities are usually from eight in the morning until one, and then closed for lunch and a rest, resuming in the late afternoon until evening. You’ll have lots of chances to take breaks. Even the Ruler Shaikh Rashid, his family, and advisors head off to London for a few weeks. Shaikh Saqr likes to go to Monte Carlo where he and his advisor, Toufiq, have villas.”

“It looks like I’ll need to be away a lot in the fall and during next year, but I’ll suffer the heat of hell here until you’re ready to return. Take the time you need to transition out of the service, spend time in London with family, and to take a well-deserved vacation.”

“Lou, I would love to be your executive officer. Oops, I mean number two. I think you can teach me a lot about business, and I can teach you a lot about the Middle East and politics. I can promise to be back by the end of September.”

“Great, let’s talk details over dinner and have a few toasts to my partner and political advisor.”

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Chapter 18 The Metamorphosis of Dubai June - August, 1965

Lou tolerates the blistering months of June, July, and August by replacing his jogging routine with a morning and evening swim in the warm Gulf water and with lots of leisurely and professional reading. Four days a week he has an Arabic language tutor come to the hotel for a one-hour lesson.

In addition to his personal routine, Lou continues to network with local and expatriate businessmen. To better tolerate the excessive heat, business and other meetings are always held mid-morning, thus avoiding going out in the hottest part of the day.

The summer of 1965 is uneventful. Lou, like Uncle Fabio, is becoming impatient. Back in New Orleans, Mamma Falconi is becoming more than impatient; she is intolerant. Her son has not been home in almost six months, and he even missed the Falconi’s annual Fourth of July celebrations. Her poor brotherin-law Fabio hears from his sister-in-law every day about her poor suffering Luigi. After several frantic calls from Papa Paolo and Uncle Fabio, Lou, knowing Sam will be returning soon, promises Mamma that he will be home by the first of November and will stay for a few months. He needs to see family just as much as they need to see him—and not just his immediate family, but all the family.

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For weeks, Lou lobbies Uncle Fabio and Meyer on the necessity of having face-to-face meetings with their counterparts, the investors in their family venture in the Arabian Gulf. Lou insists that their family, as the lead on the project, needs to do a proper presentation to the investors, just as any Fortune 500 business does for their various boards of directors. At the Gretna Conference the previous April, Lou is able to convince the extended family of the advantages of establishing Argent Corporation as the holding company for their investments in the Gulf. That is a first step to legitimizing their family businesses.

Using his Harvard knowledge, he now needs to tutor them in the proper management and organization structure of their new companies. As he has been taught at Harvard, knowledge and information are key in a successful business.

Finally agreeing, Don Fabio arranges for Lou, Meyer, and himself to travel to Las Vegas, Chicago, Detroit, and New York on a “dog and pony show” after the New Year holidays.

Meyer has been feeding monthly financial updates and passing on information from Lou, but that was the old way of doing business. The partners are used to having immediate returns and physically seeing the brick and mortar of casinos and hotels being built in Vegas or Cuba. They like the security of visually watching their money at work. The Arabian Gulf is 7,000 miles away from NOLA—too far and difficult for all the aging or incarcerated board members to travel. More importantly, Lou doesn’t want to pitch to the lower-level Dons, he wanted the decision makers.

In order to help manage expectations for the coming year, 1966, a year that is to be dedicated to preparation and mobilization, he has to show them plans that are in place and have already commenced in Dubai and Ras Al Khaimah. With Sam’s assistance, they will put together a professional 35mm slide and analog overhead projector presentation that Lou would take back home, bringing Dubai and Ras Al Khaimah to them.

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**** Friday October 1, 1965

On the drive to the airport in the unairconditioned Rover, the sultry wind blowing through the open windows, offers some relief, almost drying Lou’s sweat-soaked shirt and cooling his clammy face. Always thinking, he knows what he and Sam need to discuss and do before his trip back to New Orleans.

Pulling up to the airport parking lot gate, Lou patiently waits while the guard reluctantly leaves the shade of his hut to manually lift the boom barrier, allowing his vehicle to enter.

Parking in the almost empty front row, he climbs the few stairs to the arrivals building. But before he enters, he walks to the end of the terminal and looks over the runway below. From right to left he sees heavy equipment working on taxiways and landing strips, cranes moving metal sections in place for new hangars, and, even in the midmorning heat, hundreds of laborers with shovels and picks doing the hard work. A new foundation is being laid at one end of the small terminal for an expansion, he presumes. Returning to the front door, he enters the unairconditioned lobby and climbs a few steps to the balcony overlooking the arrivals entrance. Watching the arriving passengers below, he spots Sam nonchalantly strolling in from the tarmac. He waves to get his attention and gently drops Sam’s new resident visa over the balustrade. Like a falling leaf, the visa slowly sways back and forth towards the ground and into Sam’s waiting hands. Catching the visa document, he looks up at Lou and smiles, then disappears under the balcony towards the immigration desks. Lou waits a few minutes and then proceeds down the stairs to the ground floor and greets Sam. “Ahlan wa sahlan, Sadiqi. Welcome home, my friend.”

Sam embraces Lou, and then they do the three-cheek local greeting.

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“Believe it or not, I’m glad to be back. England is just too civilized for me. I need a bit of hardship and depravity. “ “My God! You’ve spent too much time in the desert.” Lou laughs. “Come, my friend, we have a lot to catch up on.”

Once they reach the hotel, Lou suggests that Sam goes to his room to shower and rest. They will get together for an early dinner at six. **** Meeting in the lobby, they head to the modest dining room, where they are escorted to their table. With no other dinner guests in the spacious room to overhear their discussions, an excited Lou doesn’t give Sam a chance to sit down before he pulls out a paper and hands it to him. Being an Arabic reader, Sam immediately scans the heading. “Hmmm. Office of the Ruler of Dubai.” He looks down to read the decree that allows them to open the Ten Tola, a project that is close to both their hearts.

“Congratulations, Lou. This may be the first decree approving something that is haram, forbidden, under the laws of Islam.”

Like two kids, the partners both start laughing.

“Sam, while I’m gone, you need to follow up with the Dubai Municipality to obtain the operation license. With the decree, it’s just a formality. Iskar and Tim Johnson will help guide you on that. You’ll also need to work with our contractor Ahmed Bin Ladin on the design for the bar and restaurant—especially the electronics. Things seem to slow down in the summer, so keep on their asses.”

“Lou, it’s not just in the summer. You have to keep on top of everything year ‘round in order to get anything done. With the development that is happening here, we expats need to instill a new work ethic on an entire culture. The Nationals are definitely not indolent, but their harsh environment has conditioned them 229

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to a laid-back lifestyle. Unfortunately, many of the foreign clerks and administrators they hire are even more laid back—and lazy.”

“I’ve set up a meeting on Monday for us to meet John Harris, a young British architect who’s lived between here and London for the last ten years. He has worked with the Ruler’s office and the municipality in developing the first city plan of Dubai. He is back in Dubai to upgrade the plan, and he has some interesting things to show us that will kick off very soon.

“Enough business. Tell me all about your holidays.” **** Monday October 4, 1965

Driving across the Maktoum Bridge to the Dubai side of the Creek, Lou and Sam head to the Dubai municipality office located in the Ruler’s office building, where they will meet Director General Kamal Hamza and Architect John Harris. Upon entering the office, Lou feels a sense of deja vu. The outer office is almost a replica of Iskar’s shabby office where he conducts business for Majid, only smaller. Approaching the clerk at the reception desk, Lou explains they have an appointment with Mr. Hamza.

“One minute, sir. I’ll see if he’s ready to receive you. Please have a seat,” he says pointing to a tattered sofa. A large fan feebly blows towards it.

Lou and Sam consign themselves to the fact that they will have to wait and try to get comfortable in the inadequate manmade breeze.

In a surprisingly short time, they are summoned by the clerk to follow him into the director’s office, where Lou immediately assesses his surroundings. The inner office is much better decorated and furnished than the outer office, but much less elaborate than Majid’s—and thank God there are several 230

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fans attempting to better cool the stifling air. Behind the desk sits a man with a smooth dark complexion and a broad smile revealing perfect pearl-white teeth. Quickly getting up from his chair, he walks towards his guests and extends a hand. Doing his normal appraisal of first impressions, Lou closely watches the exceptionally tall, slim gentleman.

“I’m Kamal Hamza. So pleased to meet you.”

Shaking the offered hand, Lou introduces himself and then points to his companion. “This is my associate, Sam Sweeney.”

Following suit, Sam shakes Kamal’s hand.

“Let’s sit at the conference table. John will be here soon, and we can lay out the drawings and plans he’s working on for Dubai’s future development.

A soft knock is heard at the door, and then a man of normal stature juggling several rolls of drawings enters alone. “Sorry for being late, gentlemen. I’m John Harris. Mr. al Jabir has asked me to brief you on the next stage of Dubai’s infrastructure and social development plans.”

Once the introductions are made, tea and biscuits served, and small talk finished, John proceeds to roll out the newly printed blue architectural drawings on the table while the four men stand and take viewing positions.

“Gentlemen, let me start with the projects that are most important to His Highness Shaikh Rashid. In the coming year, several new hospitals will be designed and the construction started. The first one, Al Barsha Hospital, is already under construction and will be completed by the end of 1966.

Improvements have already begun on the fifteen-year-old Al Maktoum Hospital. Additionally, plans already are underway for a world class hospital, to be called Rashid Hospital, which will take several years before it’s finished.”

Again, pointing to the drawings, Architect Harris shows the locations of five new modern schools, numerous commercial 231

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buildings, housing complexes and even a zoo, all which will commence construction soon.

Lou again thinks to himself, Rashid truly is a man of principles and is taking care of the needs of his people first. Switching back to reality, he asks, “What about the creek dredging and new custom wharf? And where will land be allocated for the offshore construction and oil service companies we have coming in?”

“Ah!” Using his finger, the architect draws an invisible line along the creek just before and after the Maktoum bridge.

“Dredging in this area along the khor and landfilling on both banks of the water will be completed by mid ’66. The first dredging in 1961 wasn’t deep enough for the new larger vessels expected, and new land needs to be reclaimed for the planned development. The northern side known as Deira has been allocated for your marine maintenance company, while the Dubai side near the Maktoum bridge is reserved for McDermott. The area where the old go-downs, or warehouses as you Americans call them, once stood before the fire, is dedicated to a new boat repair jetty and an industrial area with go-downs and offices for other service companies who come in, such as Schlumberger and Haliburton.”

“Excuse me, John,” Kamal respectfully interrupts. “May I add that, with the support of Shaikh Rashid, investors from India and surrounding Gulf countries like Kuwait and Qatar are partnering with the Government and the Ruler to build new hotels. The first luxury Ambassador Hotel, which will open next year, will cater to the anticipated influx of oilfield workers, as well as to personnel of the many peripheral support services such as banks and commercial ventures.”

“What about the airport? When I flew in on Friday, I observed a lot of activity,” Sam offers expectantly.

“Yes, construction has begun to allow the airport to take larger aircraft and to service them. Construction of a 9,200foot asphalt runway— alongside the original 5,913-foot 1959 232

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Sabkha compacted sand runway—is beginning. Taxiways were recently completed this year. New extensions to the terminal and hangars are now starting. State-of-the-art safety aids and lighting are being installed. The Dubai National Transit Association (DNATA) plans for an inauguration next May, with visits by the first big jets from Middle East Airlines and Kuwait Airways’ new Comets. Soon you’ll be able to fly twenty destinations from Dubai!”

Walking toward the window overlooking the creek, John motions the group to join him. “Look at how many cranes you see already on the skyline. Now look towards the entry of the creek at the many ships waiting to unload. Because of their size, they can’t come into the creek, so they have to unload onto barges offshore. Once the new Port Rashid is opened, the number of ships and cranes will grow exponentially.

“Gentlemen, you are witnesses to the metamorphosis of a Shaikhdom. Like the butterfly, Dubai has gone from egg stage to the larva stage, as we are seeing now. The next stage in the coming two or three decades will be the pupa stage. By 1990, you will see the emergence of the final stage, a beautiful butterfly, the ‘Pearl of the Gulf’.”

Lou watches and listens closely, especially to the analogy of the developing butterfly. I’ll use that in my presentation. It’s obvious watching the enthusiasm of the architect and Kamal Hamza’s excitement for the future that Dubai’s formula for success comes from one man’s visionary leadership, Shaikh Rashid bin Saeed Al Maktoum. High-quality infrastructure, zero tax on personal and corporate income and low import duties all will make the place a paradise for entrepreneurs who want to be part of the success story. Even the Ten Tola is a part of the Ruler’s plan to make Dubai an expatriate-friendly environment, drawing the best people in every field—banking, engineering, planning and construction.

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Back to reality. Lou knows the loans from his family alone can’t cover the cost of such development. “Where is the money coming from?”

With a broad gleaming smile, Kamal answers, “Mr. Lou, you know that since the early 1960s, Dubai has enjoyed an active gold and luxury goods trade. This year, it was worth over ten million British pounds. Next year, it is expected that more gold will be shipped from London to Dubai than almost anywhere else in the world, estimated at four million ounces. Additionally, five million ounces of silver will be traded. The demand for luxury goods in countries like India has led to the import of over fifteen million dollars’ worth of watches, writing instruments, and even luxury cars this year. The price of gold may be set at thirty-five dollars an ounce by the Americans, but its re-export market price in India is sixty-eight dollars an ounce. Dubai controls almost seventy-five percent of the total market.”

Lou is stunned at the revelation. “My God! I had no idea of the extent of the profits in trade and re-export. So, if Dubai is a tax-free country, how does the government make its money?”

“We have customs and licensing fees, and government partnerships in businesses such as gold, which contribute to our needs now. Once the oil revenue flows, these income streams will just be minor income.

“The Ruler, Shaikh Rashid, is a wise man. The government of India has devalued the Gulf Rupee, which is used in the Trucial States, so Dubai and the State of Qatar signed an agreement to issue a new currency, the Riyal, backed by oil reserves.” Kamal uses John’s analogy to end his explanation. “This strong currency will help to continue Dubai’s metamorphosis.”

“Besides the airport, creek, and port, what about infrastructure needed by the oil company?” Lou asks. “These are where much of Dubai’s profits will be derived.”

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“Yes. Let me show you the utility plans for water and power that are underway, as well as new roads and other transport concepts in the plan,” the architect obligingly offers.

For the next two hours, John patiently goes through all the details or what will make 1966 the year of development.

“Gentlemen,” Kamal interrupts, directing his attention to Lou, “It’s close to the end of the workday. We can set up another time to continue, if you wish.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Lou replies. “But I would like to have a copy of the development plans.”

“I will have to ask Mr. bin Jabir first as they are proprietary,” John replies matter-of-factly.

“Of course, I understand. Why don’t I make the request to Majid,” Lou replies, purposely using the first name to indicate his relationship with the man behind the Ruler.

“I think it would be worthwhile for you gentlemen to meet some of the British expatriates who are now employed as civil servants by the government, as well as some of the managers of some of the main contractors,” the architect offers.

“We would appreciate that.”

“Just give me a couple of days to contact the senior man in town with Overseas AST, an Austrian-based construction company and Wimpey, Halcrow, and Taylor Woodrow from the UK. Also, it would be good to talk to Khansaheb, a local Dubai construction company.” **** October 5 - 28, 1965

Until the end of a much cooler October, Lou and Sam spend their mornings meeting with managers of the major construction and engineering companies introduced by John Harris, as well as civil servants like Eric Tulloch, who is heading the Dubai Water Authority, and Bill Duff, financial advisor to the ruler.

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In the afternoon, the two partners sequester themselves in a room at the hotel that has been made into an office with two desks, a new IBM Selectric typewriter, a Xerox copy machine, and the equipment needed to prepare their presentation for the family.

One of the talented Indian hotel clerks, Rohan, spends a few hours after his normal workday to assist with the clerical work. His knowledge of preparing overhead slides for their presentation proves invaluable.

Using the development plans sent by Majid’s office and the information they’ve accumulated from their various interviews, Sam and Lou prepare a timeline for Dubai’s infrastructure development that is starting now and continuing through 1966.

For the next two weeks, they do photo excursions around Dubai taking Kodak slide shots of every project site listed on the development plans, and then organize the photos to coordinate with a transparency timeline showing the start date and expected finish date of each project.

By the end of October, Lou has a presentation to rival any corporate CEO and any Ph.D. thesis coming out of Harvard. **** Friday October 29, 1965

Walking across the newly completed tarmac to board his Kuwait Airways flight to London, Lou stops at the bottom of the metal boarding stairs and looks around at the ongoing construction activity. Shaking his head, he grins. Can you imagine this place twenty years from now?

As anxious as he is to get home, family business is Lou’s priority. His first stop is in Beirut to meet Albert Abuzian.

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After a two-day layover in London to see lawyer Carl Conetti, he heads to the USA on a British Airways flight, which offers commodious seats and flowing alcohol, unlike his earlier flight on Kuwait Air. **** Tuesday November 2, 1965

Landing at the New Orleans International Airport, Lou’s plans to head to his apartment and relax in a warm shower are thwarted as he is greeted by not just Momma and Papa, but also what seems to be half of the Italian community of NOLA. After the hugs and kisses from Papa and Momma and the cousins, the crowd parts like the Red Sea to allow Uncle Fabio through. Hugging his nephew with his signature gator wrestling hug, accompanied by two back slaps, he whispers in his ear, “Welcome home, Mio Nipoti. Get some rest this weekend and come see me on Monday. Meyer will join us.”

“Si, Zio. I look forward to it. I have some things to show you for our board meetings.”

“Bravo. Be there at three sharp and bring your presentation.

Arrivederci.” **** Monday November 8, 1965

Arriving at his uncle’s NOLA Vending Company office, Lou gently knocks.

“Venire, come in.”

As he opens the door, a hand grabs his wrist and he is pulled into the office by a surprisingly strong Meyer Lansky, who gives him a big Jewish/Italian hug.

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“Welcome home. Our man in Havana used to be your dad,” Meyer says, smiling. “Now our man in Dubai is his son, the next generation. Show us what you got.”

Seeing that Meyer has slides and overhead projectors prepared on the conference table, Lou closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and dives into his first presentation. “Gentlemen, I bring greetings from their Highnesses, Shaikh Rashid bin Saeed of Dubai, and from Shaikh Saqr bin Mohammed Al Qassimi of Ras AL Khaimah.”

Both Uncle Fabio and Meyer listen intently to the introduction and allow Lou to proceed with his report, diplomatically bombarding him with questions, and questioning his many assumptions. After two hours, a nervous, sweating Lou shuts off the heated projectors.

“Luigi, sorry we’ve been rough on you, but that is how you will be received by each head of family we meet. You must learn to convince them to manage their expectations. Meyer can tell you; these are impatient people. Waiting a year will be difficult.

You have to convince them the wait is worth it.”

“I understand, Zio.” “Great job, kid. We have faith in you,” compliments Meyer.

“The good news is that rather than four separate board meetings, our associates have agreed to all meet in Vegas so you can get back to Dubai in February. They want their man back on the ground. Capisce?”

“Si, Capisce, Zio.” “Now, go have some fun. Visit family, shag a few chicks, and enjoy your holidays. January will come sooner than you anticipate.”

“And practice, practice, practice. Only one presentation, next week, not four,” chimes in Meyer.

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**** Monday November 15, 1965

The Las Vegas conference is very low key and much more sophisticated compared to the Gretna Gulf Coast Conference.

Everything happens in one day in one conference room. Only eight guests, each Capo accompanied by one Consigliere, who is allowed to carry a weapon. The rational being that everyone feels more at ease knowing each other’s advisor is armed.

Fearing FBI bugs, names are not used, only pseudonyms.

Each side of their place card has the alias they are to use so they can see the name they are supposed to be and the other guests can see what name they should address each individual. Debugging equipment puts out ultrasonic sounds that effectively scrambles even the latest listening devices.

Only trusted and vetted waiters are allowed in, and only at set times. A body search is required before each entry. Even a classy portable bathroom is delivered so the guests never have to leave the room.

Lou is impressed with the caliber of men who have risen in the ranks. Some are still rough around the edges, but all Capos are very professional. Maybe other families also see that it’s time to change and let the new generation carry the banner of legitimacy into their world of business.

These top men are impressed with Lou. The rigorous questioning is intelligent and well thought out, but no match for Lou’s thorough preparation. By the end of the afternoon, they have an understanding that 1966 will be a year of development in Dubai with limited income until the following year. The uneasiness the Capo’s may have felt at the beginning has now become typical, relaxed Mafia banter.

Dinner is prepared by one of the best chefs in Las Vegas.

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Her interpretation of Bananas Fosters was a favorite of Uncle Fabio. The evening culminates in endless toasts of Salute’s above chiming Waterford long-stem crystal glasses filled with Remy Martin Louis XIII—and, of course fine Cuban cigars— Cohibas Exquisitos for some while others enjoyed Robustos Tubos. This ritual sealed the successful evening with a promise of a prosperous future.

A proud Uncle Fabio and Meyer Lansky are impressed at how many of the toasts are directed to Luigi Falconi and to progress in the Arabian Gulf in 1966. Hearing these toasts only confirms the plans they have for the future of their Golden Boy. Nineteen sixty-six would be a very good year.

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PART II 1967 AO The Times They Are a-Changin’

241

Chapter 19 The Ten Tola Since the end of February, rumors have circulated in the inner circle of Continental Oil Company and their drilling and service contractors that oil has been discovered offshore Dubai.

On June 6, 1966, the Dubai Government issues a press release announcing. their offshore exploration efforts are successful, with sufficient oil reserves to move to the development stage.

The field is named “Al Fateh,” by His Highness Shaikh Rashid, which in Arabic means “good fortune.” The revelation starts a feeding frenzy of competition for new contracts among the established oil service and other oil-related companies, as well as new competition from Europe and Asia. **** Friday April 7, 1967

The elite group of businessmen who have been sharing the facilities of Shaikh Rashid’s guest house slowly disperse to hotels or permanent accommodations. Jim Christopher, Manager of Citi Bank’s new branch office, is the first expatriate manager to occupy his new, company-owned villa. In an effort to continue the camaraderie of this pioneering assembly of entrepreneurs and corporate managers, Jim hosts a weekly Friday afternoon Indian curry lunch for his old roommates. It’s a chance to socialize, relax, share business secrets, and, in some cases, plant the lies 242

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that might give them a business edge. It is also a venue for the original lodgers to bring in newcomers to their inner sanctum.

Unlike the guest house that relied on beach breezes to cool it, Jim’s place has several window-type air conditioners hanging out of holes carved through the cinder block walls of the dining room and lounge, making the one-hundred-degree Dubai heat and humidity bearable.

Loose-fitting linen slacks and shirts unbuttoned to the midriff like Elvis and a few multi- pocketed tropical Safari suits donned by the Brit contingent are the normal attire. After several gin and tonics and hot curry, gossip, stories, and rumors flow.

“Hi, Jim, we really appreciate you doing this every week.

Thanks again,” Lou goes for a handshake.

“Afraid this is the last one for a couple of months,” Jim replies. “My wife and kids will be coming out for spring break next week. She thinks I’m suffering alone out here. Make sure you keep to that story when you meet her.”

“I look forward to the opportunity. Hopefully, she’ll be here for the grand opening of the Ten Tola next month.”

Peeking through the arch to the lounge, Lou gives a casual “Hello” to everyone, makes a stiff drink, then walks around the room introducing himself to the new faces.

Dragging a few floor pillows between two occupied lounge chairs, he plops down and joins his comrades in the communal conversation about the future of banking in Dubai, now that petrodollars will soon flow.

“Majid tells me that at least five new banks want to set up offices and branches in Dubai since the announcement that oil had been discovered offshore,” Jim tells the group. “That includes our guest here.” He points toward Franklin Ford, International Vice President of First Chicago Bank.

Scornfully, Lou peers at Franklin. Bastard reminds me of the Ivy League privileged characters I had to contend with at Harvard. To my face, guys like him feigned acceptance of me 243

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because I was in the boxing club, but behind my back, they called me the Bayou WOP. “Where were the bankers when Shaikh Rashid and the government needed financing?” Lou asks. “Hell, none of them wanted to loan money to the Dubai Government. Now they’re standing in line offering hundreds of millions to finance the infrastructure and other projects that they rejected just two years before.”

Addressing Lou with a Cheshire cat who caught the mouse grin, Jim replies, “Well, it looks like ole Majid bin Jabir got the money somewhere.”

The only alcohol-celibate guest, Tim Johnson, blurts out, “Shit, if I was His Highness, I’d just take as much money as the banks want to loan me. What are they gonna do if I don’t pay them back?”

“Unfortunately, our parent banks have strenuous guidelines for loans to fledgling governments, including Sovereign Guarantees,” Franklin explains. “The government has to guarantee payment even for a loan to a company that is building a project for the government.”

“How’s that work?” asks another newcomer, Butch Malone, the burly ex-Texas A&M linebacker and now manager of Houston Design and Contracting. “Does it mean that if we get this contract to build the new Intercontinental hotel, the banks won’t finance it?”

“Probably not,” Franklin replies, “unless your parent company or the Dubai government guarantees payment should you default. In the case of Dubai, they would have to pledge oil revenues as collateral with priority payback to the bank as lender of first right. Any other people that Dubai owes money to has to wait in line to be paid.”

“Gents, curry is on the table,” Jim announces.

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Lou lifts himself from the cushion. Not much different than our loan to the Ruler giving us a guarantee of preferential business for our companies.

Lou’s contribution to his table’s lunch talk is subdued as Tim’s comment and Franklin’s explanation of sovereign guarantees occupy his thoughts. Finishing his meal, Lou excuses himself. Seeing a phone on the stand at the house entrance, he heads to it. He looks around to make sure he’s alone, and then dials Majid’s number. “Hi, Majid, it’s Luigi. Are you available to see me? Great. I’ll be there in thirty minutes.” **** Sitting in Majid’s home office, Lou is served the mint tea he’s grown fond of. As Majid enters in his casual dishdasha, Lou stands for the normal greeting.

Moving around to sit at his desk, Majid says, “It must be important to be working on our only day off.”

“I’m sure it could have waited, but I was just at lunch with a few of the expat businessmen and one of the new aspiring bankers. From the lunch conversation, it seems there is a big opportunity for the Dubai Government to fund a lot of the visionary developments His Highness has talked about. I recall hearing him say that he wants to build a proper port, dry dock, and water distribution and sewage treatment facilities, as well as hospitals and schools for his growing population. Things that would benefit and encourage private business and enhance the quality of life for his subjects.”

“Yes, he is almost clairvoyant. He sees the future before anyone else can, even before the future becomes the present.

But his vision takes money.”

“I think we can tap these new banks’ thirst for loaning the government money, and also alleviate the concerns the families have expressed to Uncle Fabio and Meyer.”

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Majid’s forehead wrinkles as he squints his eyes in thought.

“Concerns? What concerns?”

“It’s been over a year, and there hasn’t been any payment made on the five hundred-million-dollar loan. I’ve placated everyone for now, but with the news of the Fateh discovery, we need to do something soon.”

“What do you suggest?”

“I think you should take the banks up on their offer. Invite them all to set up offices and even retail services in Dubai. The more competition, the better the terms. Then you appoint Tony Conetti’s firm in Hong Kong to act as financial consultant to the Government and borrow all of the money needed for the port, dry dock, roads, bridges, and all the infrastructure His Highness wants. Even if the government gives a sovereign guarantee for the loans, if worse comes to worse, the profits the government is pulling in from their share of all of the companies we’ve established in Dubai and Ras Al Khaimah, as well as the millions of dollars of cash being legitimized for families in Vegas, Chicago, New York and Detroit, the Gulf Coast family, could easily cover any default.”

“What’s in it for you and the family?”

“It’s not me, Jabir, it’s us! We need to show some good faith and make a payment on the principal amount of the loan. With Tony, Meyer, and me handling these bank loans, we can charge a large enough arrangement fee to make regular payments to the different families on their loans, and we can funnel some of the family’s money through those loans, giving us more confidentiality.”

“Why don’t I just talk to your Uncle Fabio and explain that with the profits being made by the companies the family own here and in Ras Al Khaimah, they could easily eat the loss of the five hundred mill loan and still make obscene profits.”

“Remember who you’re dealing with here, Majid. That’s not how our business works. The loan and individual company 246

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profits are separate revenue centers. To the family bosses, a loan is a loan and company profits are something else.”

Smiling to the point of laughing, Majid replies, “What are they going to do, break my legs?”

“Majid, you came to us. You knew who you were going to bed with. It’s not just your legs that could get broken. I’m on your side here. We’ve laid the groundwork for something huge. Without us, you’re still destined to be a rich and powerful person. With us, the sky’s the limit—Ambassador, United Nations Secretary General—more power than you’ll ever achieve on your own.”

Lou hesitates, puts on his Capo hat, and with a piercing stare, says, “And you’ll live to enjoy it.”

Majid’s pale face betrays him. “Okay, we’ll go along with the bank loans. All that His Highness will need to know is that we’re just facilitating things with the banks.”

Lou stands. “Thank you, Majid. You won’t regret this.”

Regaining his composure, Majid adds, “By the way, now that we’re getting close to production, have you given any thought on setting up the oil trading and marketing company to handle the Dubai government’s share of production? Once Ras Al Khaimah starts production, we can include their production.

Have you found the right man to run the company?”

“I’ve been given names by His Excellency Ahmed Zaki Yamani, Minister of Petroleum and Mineral Resources, Kingdom of Saudi Arabia.”

An incredulous look comes over Majid’s face, just the reaction Lou was hoping for. “You know Yamani?”

Embellishing on his chance meeting with the Minister in Beirut, Lou responds, “Yes, he’s a friend of the family.”

Having planted the seed to show Majid the scope of the family’s reach, Lou bids him Ma’salama, turns, and leaves.

Returning to the Airport Hotel, Lou heads to the telex room.

Dismissing the attendant with a ten riyal note, he locks the door and proceeds to personally type instructions to Tony Conetti and 247

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then pushes the transmit button. After the clacking and whirring sounds of the machine abate, he tears the transmitted sheets off the telex paper roll, takes the encrypted punch tape from the machine, and exits the room. **** Thursday April 13, 1967

With its new oil boom, Dubai is becoming a social town. The company managers are the major entertainers who fawn over the Continental executives for the millions of dollars in material and service contracts they hand out. MOMS, DOODS, and the other companies directly under the Falconi’s corporate umbrella are no exception. Even with their preferred status, Nic, Tim, and Lou’s other top guys still have to play the game. Expense accounts were big during the pre-oil production days, and to wine and dine the big boys was just part of the cost of doing business.

The timing for the opening of the Ten Tola couldn’t have been better. Fitting out and decorating the Ten Tola takes longer than projected, but the result was well worth the wait.

Everything was just as Lou planned—the dark mahogany wood and the burgundy leather cushioned chairs and booths, down to the decorator mirrors covering the upper walls. And, of course, the control room, as Lou and Sam call it.

The one-way glass mirror gives the office and control room a clear view of every seat in the venue, and the microphones in the centerpiece of each table and on the bar are invisible and undetectable. Lou and Sam can tune into the conversations of anyone in the joint. Just to make sure they don’t miss anything important, discussions at each table are audio taped so they can be reviewed.

Access to the control room is through a secret door behind floor-to-ceiling sliding bookcases in Lou and Sam’s office, and 248

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entry is limited to them and two young tech-savvy Germans who are hired to keep the surveillance equipment operational at the Ten Tola and the Ras Al Khaimah Casino. Although the techies are bound by confidentiality agreements and threats of bodily harm to them and their families, Sam recruited them mainly because their lack of English enhances security. Sam’s passable German makes it easy to communicate.

Most company entertainment is done in homes and, when the weather permits, garden parties or one of the few venues like the Safari Club. The oil community works hard and plays hard.

They’re hungry for new places to blow off steam and have been anticipating the opening of the new play spot for over a year.

The excitement is contagious, and the Grand Opening of the Ten Tola becomes the social event of the year.

Lou is a master of networking, and the guest list includes the top managers of Continental and the heads of the major companies, including the ones outside of Lou’s realm, creating the image of an even playing field. Friends from Ras Al Khaimah and Abu Dhabi are also invited, as are the top managers of the new banks in town.

Majid delivers on the seaside villas, and Lou is in the process decorating his beach retreat. His neighbor on one side is the President of Continental, Earl “Good Ole Boy” Scrudds, an Oklahoma wild-catter who was sent to Dubai for pre-retirement.

According to Sweeney’s intelligence, which included medical records, Earl is known to be incontinent in the top floor office of Continental Oil Company. Poor Earl had seen his last gusher years ago. He was happy just to get a steady stream flowing in the bathroom once in a while.

On the other side lives Brandon Davidson, Chairman of McDermott Arabian Gulf, and his beautiful South American wife. A few houses down the beach road reside Pat and Nan Riley. Pat is the government relation’s man for Continental 249

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and a fluent Arabist who deals with the Ruler of Dubai and the Government Petroleum Department.

Because of his language skills, Ivy League education, and the fact that he interacts with high-level government officials in countries on both sides of the Gulf, Pat is reputed to be the USA government eyes and ears in the area. According to Sam, he’s also a CIA agent. Pat is a good guy, unlike their other managers who are hard-ass oilmen who worked their way to the top. A bit of an intellectual, but easy to talk to and a good source of information.

Sitting in their shared office preparing for the event, Sam and Lou review their checklist covering every contingency for the occasion: wine, beer and liquor—check; food—check; staff— check; entertainment, Sal Davis—check; dinner music—check; dance music—check.

“Sam, were the tech guys able to do anything on wiring the dinner tables in the lobby and reception area just for the opening night?”

“Not possible without sophisticated wireless equipment.”

“Okay, then let’s reserve one of the best tables in the bar area for the Continental group, so after dinner they can roam freely back and forth, and maybe we can catch some information when they’re in the bar,” Lou states.

“Sounds like a plan.”

Returning to their checklist, Lou’s face crinkles in confusion.

“Is something wrong?” Sam asks.

“This printer’s proof of the invitation states ‘Gulf Rig,’” Lou says, pointing to the line under “Dress for the evening.” “I know what formal, informal, National Dress, and casual mean, but Gulf Rig is new to me. A rig is one of those big steel platforms with a big derrick they use to drill offshore oil wells. Are we supposed to wear hardhats and coveralls? We got class—we don’t want none of that shit in the Ten Tola,” Lou says.

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With a loud laugh, Sam responds, “You Yanks don’t know shit about the Middle East. ‘Gulf Rig’ is formal attire for gentlemen in the Arabian Gulf countries. It’s tuxedo pants, a tuxedo shirt but with short sleeves—so you have to buy a long sleeve shirt and cut them off—and a cummerbund. You don’t wear a tie and you leave the neck unbuttoned just like a sport shirt. My colonial British countrymen came up with the idea years ago in India, and other warm weather colonies adapted it to allow an event to be formal, yet comfortable in the heat of the Middle East.

Pioneer Tailors near Al Nassar Square will fix you up. I’ll take you there tomorrow.”

“I guess ideas like that is why your empire collapsed,” Lou teases with a chuckle. “The only good thing to come from the British Empire was gin and tonic—all of that quinine in the tonic to keep away malaria and all of that gin to keep away the French.”

Reverting to his list, Sam continues, “Now that we cleared that up, let’s get on with business. We’re spending a bunch of dough on this, so we need to get it right. It’s only two weeks until the big gala, and we have a soft opening tonight to make sure the staff and our control room are operating as expected.”

The dry run that evening goes well with just a few glitches in the audio and some mess ups by staff, but overall good enough for the grand opening. The next two weeks will give Lou and Sam time to smooth out the kinks. **** Thursday, April 27, 1967

Work on Shaikh Rashid’s Al Bustan Hotel isn’t quite complete, with upper floor room decorating still ongoing, but the ground floor lobby/reception area is finished, allowing it to be used for the formal dinner. Guests are to be entertained 251

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by a string quartet during dinner and a dance band later in the evening. After eating, people can casually stroll between the bar and the dining area to enjoy the atmosphere and the singing of Sal Davis or they can dance in the main room.

Dressed in their new Gulf Rig outfits, Sam and Lou wait by the hotel entrance for the arrival of their guests. The first to appear is Iskar and Tim, accompanied by two beautiful ladies dressed in their traditional Indian saris. Always a bit eccentric, the success of DOODS seemed to exacerbate Tim’s humorous and spontaneous behavior.

“Hey, hey, hey—how you fookie wookies doing? I hope your band can play the Chicken Dance, my favorite,” he says with his haw, haw laugh. “This here is Evie DeSouza and her sister Lucy. Ladies, this is Lou Falconi and his partner Sam who own this joint.”

Iskar being Iskar rolls his eyes at Tim’s behavior, nods to Lou and Sam, and walks into the lobby area.

For the next hour, the top company executives arrive: Ed Stroller, VP of McDermott Arabian Gulf; Halib Haider, Manager of Abuzian Catering Company and his boss from Beirut; and Albert Abuzian, a close friend with Meyer and Uncle Fabio’s and managing partner in the recently opened Ras Al Khaimah Casino.

The most anticipated VIP to arrive is Earl Scruggs, the Continental President, and his sweet wife Lilly.

“Earl, Lilly, what a pleasure. I’m so glad you made it.” Lou offers an American handshake to the gentleman and a kiss on the cheek for his lady.

“Wouldn’t miss it, Lou. I hope you don’t mind, but I brought a guest. This is Leonard F. McCully, the Chairman of Continental.

He just arrived from Ponca City.”

“We’re honored to have you join us, Mr. McCully. I’m Lou Falconi, and this is my partner in this venture, Samuel Sweeney.”

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“Your reputation precedes you, Mr. Falconi,” he says with a smirk. “I’ve heard a lot about you and your companies, and I appreciate the support you’ve given Earl and Continental, especially with the establishment of the school for the dependents of our employees.”

Ignoring the obvious duplicitous remark, Lou acts as a gentleman. “Thank you, sir. We’re always here to assist you and the government.”

“Mr. Scrudds, we’ve seated you with Mr. bin Jabir, whom you know well, and Toufiq Abdul Kazim, the Advisor to Shaikh Saqr of Ras Al Khaimah. Sam, will you escort our guests inside and show them where their table is located on the chart?”

Sam picks up on the fact that table adjustments need to be made to accommodate the extra guest and gives Lou a “heads up” nod. “My pleasure, please follow me.”

Swaggering in like a street corner hood, Nic Nicandro, President of MOMS, arrives with his lovely wife. “Hey, Lou, how ya doin’?”

“Great, Nic. Delores, you look lovely as usual,” Lou says.

“Hey, Lou, my new yacht is arriving in a couple of weeks from Monte Carlo. That should make our dive trips a bit more comfortable.”

With dagger-throwing eyes, Lou stares intently. “A bit ostentatious, don’t you think? Remember our low-profile philosophy?”

“Nah, it’s for entertaining. Available to all our boys here to use.”

“We’ll discuss it another time. Delores, you and Nic have a great evening.”

With a break in arriving guests, Lou scrambles into the dining area to check things out and returns to the door just as his cousin Frankie arrives with one of the beautiful McDermott secretaries.

“Hi, cuz. Looks like this is going well,” he says as he leans in to hug Lou and give the Italian cheek kiss.

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Reciprocating, Lou returns the hug and kiss. “So far so good.

Congratulations on your promotion to VP of Marketing. No more diving for you.”

“I’ll never stop diving. You’ve done enough sport diving with me to know how it is. Like a drug—once you start, you never can quit.”

“You’re right, nothing like blowing bubbles and spearing hammour for lunch,” Lou comments. Noticing Frankie’s companion giving his cousin the evil eye, he does a gentle head nod.

Picking up on the nonverbal communication, Frankie changes the subject. “Excuse my lack of etiquette. This is my friend, Felicity Maris, my lady for the evening.”

Mesmerized by the stunning lady, Lou stares silently into her eyes for what seems like several minutes. Almost stuttering, he finally replies, “My pleasure,” and takes her right hand, gently kissing the back of it. “You two go in and mingle. Sam’s inside, I’m just waiting for Majid and Toufiq, and the new school superintendent, and then I’ll join you. We’re sitting at the same table with Tony Conetti and Sam.” As he starts to escort Felicity inside, Lou grabs Frankie’s arm so he can whisper in his ear, “What’s this shit about Nic bringing in a yacht? Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“I told you. Nic’s a rebel and does what he wants. Thinks he’s a ‘made man,’ not even Italian. I didn’t know about it until just now. Let me find out more. Just relax and enjoy tonight.”

“Okay, you’re right, time to deal with that later.”

Just as Lou completes his sentence, a young man with a striking lady by his side enters the barely air-conditioned lobby.

The new school superintendent, Luca Luchetti, is greeted by Lou with the Italian family hug and kiss. “So good to see you. I’m sorry we haven’t had time to get together since you’ve arrived.”

“Lou, you haven’t met my wife, Susan.”

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Giving her a respectful peck on the cheek, he asks. “I hope everything with your new home is in order and acceptable.”

“We’re still in the hotel, but we’ve found a lovely beach villa not far from where I understand you live,” she replies.

“We’ll be seeing a lot of each other, since I’m on the school board and we’ll soon be neighbors. We can catch up a bit later as we’re at the same table with Frankie.”

“Frankie’s here in Dubai? I can’t wait to see him,” Luca exclaims.

“More than a year now. He’s the VP of one of our companies.

He’ll be glad to see you also. Please head inside, and I’ll join you later.”

Looking at his watch, Lou becomes anxious. Where in the fuck are you? People are getting hungry.

Almost as if he conjured them to appear, Majid and Toufiq arrive, and Lou escorts them to their table.

Seeing Lou with the last two guests, Sam takes the microphone as planned and announces, “Ladies and gentlemen, many of you haven’t met me. I’m Sam Sweeney.” Pointing to Lou across the room, he continues, “My partner, Luigi Falconi, or Lou, as he likes to be called, and I are honored to have you join us tonight, and we hope to see you often in the Ten Tola.

Please be seated. Dinner is ready.”

Once everyone is comfortable, Lou stands at his table and faces the guests while his table mates use their cutlery to ‘ting’ on their wine glass, trying to get everyone’s attention. Without a microphone, Lou projects his tenor voice to address his guests.

“We would like to welcome all of you to the grand opening of the Ten Tola. This is a place especially conceived for you, the hard-working men and women in the oil industry, and all of the peripheral businesses that support it. We want this to be a place where the roughneck and tool pushers can enjoy a refreshment sitting next to the VP of a bank, their company manager, visitors to Dubai, and,” Lou pauses as he looks around the room, finds 255

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his target, and points, “and rub shoulders with the Chief of the Dubai Police.”

An embarrassed Colonel Jack Harcross dips his head as the crowd giggles and claps.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please raise your water glass for a toast. To His Highness, Shaikh Rashid bin Saeed Al Maktoum, the Ruler of Dubai and visionary extraordinaire.”

“To Shaikh Rashid,” the crowd responds in unison.

“Please enjoy the evening,” Lou concludes.

Dinner goes better than either Sam or Lou could imagine, with the string quartet setting the tone.

Again, Sam takes over as MC and heads to the microphone stand. “We hope you’re enjoying dinner and invite you to visit the Ten Tola next door—or stay here and dance to the music of the Manila Rockers. Or you can do both. We’ve arranged for a food table all evening in case you need to recharge your batteries with some carbs and proteins.”

As the crowd disperses to the dance floor, Lou decides it’s time for refreshment and invites Luca and his wife Susan for their first drink in the Ten Tola. Sitting at the long mahogany bar, the threesome chat and catch up on family news. Eventually, talk turns to the new Jumairah American School.

“Lou, I really want to thank you for giving me this opportunity to head the new school.”

“It was a board decision, not mine,” Lou states. “I’m just one member.”

“Yeah, but I’m sure a bit of nepotism helped. Thanks, cousin.”

“We needed a school, and the school needed a headmaster.

I just facilitated things a bit. With the growth of US expatriate families coming to Dubai, we saw the need for a school with an American curriculum and helped make it happen. The President of Continental was all for it. Without education for the children of their expat staff, they would have a difficult time getting good 256

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company people to relocate here. So, we lobbied the government to allow an American school to be built, funded by Continental, McDermott, Haliburton, Schlumberger, MOMS, and other companies. Our friend, Majid bin Jabir, even got the Ruler to establish it under a royal decree.”

“That must have been difficult to get all of the companies to participate.”

“Not really. They needed to be supportive if they wanted contracts from Continental. Just a little old-fashioned arm twisting.”

“Did you have a lot of candidates for the headmaster’s job?

I just need to know it wasn’t just our family relationship that got me this job.”

Smiling, Lou puts his hand on Luca’s shoulder. “We had over one hundred applications, but you were the best and had the best experience and recommendations. Yes, I was partial, but only because you were the best.”

Lou leans back. “Folks, I need to mingle. Why don’t you do the same? Most of the guests will have kids in the new school and many are anxious to meet both of you.”

As Lou starts to get up, Susan reaches over and gives him a kiss on the cheek and whispers, “Thank you for getting Luca out of Detroit. He wasn’t cut out for that kind of life.”

Grabbing her hand, Lou responds, “We’re the next generation. We’ll do things differently.” He then walks toward the small stage at the back of the room.

Lou believed in full disclosure, and all of the school board members knew Luca was his and Frankie’s second cousin.

However, unbeknown to anyone but Lou and Frankie, Luca’s father Vincenzo was a heavyweight in the United Auto Workers Union and head of the Detroit family, so to Uncle Fabio, he was more than a cousin, he was his best paisano. Always thinking outside of the box, Lou understood the peripheral benefits of having Luca in that job. Everyone in town would know the new 257

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school administrator, and his and Susan’s interaction with the wives of powerful board members and company managers could be of benefit to Lou. He may not be part of the inside life of his family business in Detroit, but he was one hundred percent Italian family blood, and blood is a bond. **** “Sal, you look great, did you enjoy dinner?” Lou greets the stylish entertainer setting up for his evening at the piano.

“Fabulous food. You and Sam have set the bar too high for anyone else to reach it.”

“That’s why you’re here—only the best for our guests.

What’s the repertoire for tonight?”

“I’ll start out with my Sinatra favorites, and then feel the crowd and improvise for whatever the atmosphere dictates.”

“That’s why you’re so good, you can read a room. Speaking of rooms, the Ten Tola is filling up. I’ll leave you to do your thing.”

“See you later, Lou.” Joining Tim at the bar, they talk with several of the company wives as their diminutive yet dignified-looking DOODS partner, Iskar, walks towards them. Between two fingers, he delicately holds a long, slim, black tube with a band of gold where it met the French Gauloise cigarette. With a big smile, he places his hand on Lou’s back and looks directly into his eyes. “Great job.”

Simultaneously, he gracefully and almost unnoticed slips a gold Cartier lighter out of his pocket and, in one smooth motion, flicks and lights the cigarette entering the mouth of Darlene Jamieson, wife of the manager of Schlumberger, who is standing next to him.

Lou looks at Tim and shakes his head. This Indian Casanova is really suave. I can see why the ladies are obviously enthralled and enamored by him.

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Darlene responds to the gesture in a lovely, silky, sensuous Southern accent, “Why, thank you, kind sir.”

Like listening to Scarlett talk to Rhett. Iskar has nothing on Darlene; she is as smooth as he is, Lou surmises and continues watching Iskar impress the growing assembly of female admirers.

Lifting his foot onto the brass rail and resting his arms on the polished wood, Lou scans his newly inaugurated bar. The place is beginning to look, feel, and smell like a real bar, dimly lit, smoke-filled, and full of customers sitting in the circular booths talking, laughing and singing.

As usual, Sal’s Sinatra renditions and copious amounts of booze transport everyone to the Sands in Vegas.

Above the hum of Tim talking and the soft piano tones of My Way being played by the African Sinatra, Lou hears a commotion from a table near the front. Looking toward the rumpus, he sees a large man being coaxed back into his chair by his tablemates.

Judging by the slur in his speech and lack of motor skills, it appears he has been imbibing the imported liquor a good part of the evening. With a loud crash, he breaks free from his friendly captors, and like a determined fullback on a touchdown drive, heads straight toward Iskar. Just as the alcohol-impaired customer boldly zigs and zags around obstacles in his path, ol’ dark eyes, Sal Davis, begins singing a well-timed and appropriate: “And now, the end is near.

And so, I face the final curtain.”

The inebriated expat stumbles, falling to his knees. He’s now almost face-to-face with the altitude-challenged Iskar, who calmly stands his ground and continues to smoke his cigarette.

The angry man stands and regains his height advantage over the seemingly unfazed Indian. A spray of spit accompanies the words aimed at Iskar. “Tandoody, you curry-breath, greasyhaired, Harijan bastard.”

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The fullback begins to falter. Placing his right hand on the bar to steady himself, he continues his attack. “I worked over a year to get that fuckin’ contract. You know I had the best product and the best price. You fucked me.”

Slowly he lifts his hand from the bar and tries to point his finger at Iskar. The combination of booze and emotion takes control of his body and the attempted gesture morphs into a vibrating fist. “You can pull my visa and get me deported, but you better not ever set foot in the USA, or I’ll cut you into pieces too small to make Bar-B-Q Tikka.”

As Sal continues singing the Sinatra tune in his SwahiliBritish accent, Omar, the bartender, hurdles over the mahogany bar with a Louisville Slugger in his right hand.

“Are you okay, Mr. Tandoody?” asks the barman.

Iskar’s eyebrows lifted roguishly and his lips part in an arrogant smile. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

As the “oh shits” are still being muttered throughout the bar, Lou steps between the boozy businessman and Omar. “Put the fuckin’ bat away. Everything is under control.”

Turning toward the dispirited fullback, Lou lifts his clenched fist and flips out his long forefinger. Holding his right hand as if it were a pistol, he touches the nose of the large lush. “You oversized drunken dromedary. Hump your ass back to the desert and don’t ever stick your camel dick in the Ten Tola again.”

The three friends of the drunken antagonist swiftly move into the cluster and escort him from the premises.

Just then, Sam appears. “Are you both okay?”

“We’re fine. Sam, see if you can find our friend Colonel Harcross and tell him Iskar wants that tequila-breath bozo escorted to the airport and put on the next plane outta here.”

Lou reaches for Iskar’s drink and hands him his Chardonnay.

He notices how calm Iskar appears. During the entire confrontation, not a bead of sweat broke out on his brow. He just kept slowly puffing on that long cigarette holder that still 260

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dangles from his lips. He is either the coolest dude Lou has ever met or the stupidest. Taking a big gulp from his drink, Lou holds up his glass and with a “cheers,” clinks Iskar’s glass. Before putting the drink to his lips, Iskar reaches toward the cigarette holder in his mouth and removes it—both halves. During the face-off, he had bitten the expensive black coral holder into two pieces. Undaunted, he coolly puts one, then the other section on the counter, salutes the spectators, and tips his glass.

Almost as if choreographed, Sal is right on queue with: “Yes, there were times, I’m sure you knew, When I bit off more than I could chew, But through it all, when there was doubt, I ate it up and spit it out.

I faced it all and I stood tall…”

Just before the last lines, Lou turns to Tim. “What was that ruckus all about?”

“Nothing really. That fella didn’t know how to take care of his business and got caught on the short end. He thought he could operate out here like he was still back in the States. Everyone tried to tell him things were different in Dubai. He could have been a friend, but he was just too stubborn to learn the rules, and now he blames Iskar for his failure. Out here, everyone can be a friend—as long as you play by the rules.”

Tim turns toward Iskar. “Come on, Iskar, let’s get the fuck out of here and go to my place and get laid.”

Without a word or a goodbye gesture, Tim places his arm around Iskar’s shoulder, and they walk away, leaving Lou standing alone at the bar.

As Lou’s eyes follow their departure Sal belts out his finale: “The record shows I took the blows And did it my way!”

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Thank God, the timely tenor wasn’t so timely after all. No one met with any blows.

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Chapter 20 My Neighbor Is my Enemy, and my Neighbor’s Neighbor Is my Friend Sunday April 30, 1967

For the next few days, flowers, cards, candy, and other gifts are delivered to the Ten Tola, thanking Sam and Lou for the great evening and congratulating them on the Grand Opening.

Nursing hangovers, the two amigos spend their time scanning audio and video tapes, hoping to uncover some juicy gossip or business dealings they can capitalize on. Feeling like voyeurs, Sam and Lou listen while husbands hit on their wife’s friends, people arrange hookups while their wife or husband is gone, and even a caustic berating from a husband to his wife telling her she drinks too much and is being too friendly.

“Damn, it sounds like Dubai is becoming the Peyton Place of the Middle East. Maybe we’ll save these tapes. Never can tell when we might need a bit of leverage,” Lou says.

Nothing seems of interest until Sam hears Pat Riley talking privately to Leonard McCully, the visiting CEO of Continental.

“Lou, listen to this.”

Sam pushes the “start” button, and Lou listens.

Leonard: “Pat, we need to get the contingency Shut Down and Evacuation plans ready. The situation with the Israeli’s and President Nassar and the Arab League….”

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Sam pauses the tape and explains to Lou. “The Arab League is the creation of President Nassar to unite all Arab countries into a unified nationalistic block to resist the influence of the West and oppose Israel. It consists of the Egypt, Libya, Iraq, Syria, Jordan, Sudan, Yemen Arab Republic, Morocco, Lebanon, Algeria, and Palestine, and closer to us here in the Arabian Gulf, Saudi Arabia, Kuwait.” Again, Sam pushes the “start” button and Lou listens.

Leonard: “. . . is becoming tenuous. Our contacts in Washington feel that tensions have reached the breaking point and war with Israel is inevitable. It could be just a matter of weeks. What have you heard on the ground?”

Pat: “Pretty much the same from the Brits and French.

Washington also feels the tension is at the breaking point.

What about the Saudis?”

Leonard: “They’re in a difficult position. There’s a lot of support for Arab Nationalism in the area, but the Saudis know if they want to maintain their monarchy, they need the West’s support. ARAMCO is big and will soon be the largest oil producer in the world. If that flow is turned off, it could mean economic disaster for the West. But Continental’s priority now is the safety of our staff and dependents.”

Pat: “I’ll call a meeting with Earl and the managers tomorrow morning to review our contingency plans. Let me talk to our friends. Meyer Lansky is close to Lou Falconi.

Meyer and his Jewish friends have been a big financial support of Israel for years. Maybe Lou has heard something through his family grapevine.”

Leonard: “I want to be at tomorrow’s meeting. Let me know what time. I’m going to call it a night and head back to the hotel—jet lag.”

Pushing the “stop” button, Sam seems concerned. “This is bad, Lou. We could lose everything if a war breaks out and 264

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spreads to the Gulf. Nassar has already moved two Egyptian divisions into the Sinai Peninsula and placed the Egyptian Army on full alert.

“The Trucial Council even sympathizes with the Arab League. Shaikh Saqr is the president of the Council and is eager for the investment the Arab League have promised his and other Trucial States. However, he’s a wise man and knows he needs to protect his crown and his tribe. Shaikh Saqr recently led a crackdown on an organization called ‘Struggle for The Expulsion of Foreigners’ that was trying to overthrow several Trucial State Shaikhs who they felt were allowing too many non-Arabs into the country and giving them Government positions. It’s rumored that Shaikh Saqr’s son, Shaikh Khalil, the Crown Prince, may have been behind the demonstrations in RAK.” “I’ll call Uncle Fabio and Meyer.”

“No, you can’t talk about this on the phone. You’ve always felt our phones are bugged, and I agree. But by whom? Majid, the Brits, the Israelis, maybe the CIA? We can’t take a chance.

Any conversations we have need to be face-to-face.”

As they talk, the phone on their meeting table rings. Startled, both Lou and Sam look at the phone. Lou reluctantly reaches for it and hears their receptionist announce, “Mr. Falconi. I have Mr. Pat Riley on the phone for you.”

Before pressing the line-one button, Lou smiles at Sam. “What a coincidence. The wheels are already turning.”

He presses the button. “Pat, how good to hear from you.

Well, thank you, I’m pleased you enjoyed the party, and thank you for the compliments. I’d be happy to meet with you.”

Just then Sam’s hand raises with his pinky finger and thumb out and the three middle fingers folded, and holds it up to his ear, mimicking a phone. With his left hand, he covers the faux pinky mouthpiece. Picking up on the gesture, Lou covers his phone mouthpiece. Sam leans over and whispers, “Make him come here,” pointing to the control room.

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Getting the message, Lou continues the conversation. “I have a few meetings scheduled today, but for you I can find time.

Would it be possible to meet here, say four-thirty p.m.? Thank you, Pat. See you later.”

“Thanks, Sam. Good idea to have this meeting on tape.”

“Meet in your office. Too many eyes downstairs. Close the curtains on the glass view of the bar area. Best to keep that unknown.” **** Promptly at four thirty, Lou hears the soft knock on the office door. Opening the portal, he’s faced with Pat and an unknown man. Scanning the stranger, Lou grins at his appearance. The visitor is wearing a familiar blue striped Seersucker light-weight suit first created by a New Orleans tailor at the turn of the century.

Very practical in the Middle East environment, and Lou assumes the man lives in a similar climate that is hot and humid. For his age, he appears in seemingly good physical shape, except for the almost invisible facial scars under his well-trimmed salt and pepper beard. His thinning white hair highlights his penetrating blue eyes, typical of the Ashkenazi Jews Lou met in Israel when he visited with Meyer.

“Lou, thank you for seeing me. Sorry to surprise you with a guest. This is Wolfgang Leader, a friend of mine.”

“Wolfgang, my pleasure. Friends of Pat are always welcome.”

“Thank you, Mr. Falconi,” he replies in a slight European accent that Lou surmises to be Germanic.

“Please take a seat,” Lou offers, pointing to the Chesterfield along the wall. “Can I offer a drink, coffee, or tea?”

“No, thank you,” both visitors reply simultaneously as they sit on the sofa.

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need you to keep it confidential, to be discussed only with Mr. Meyer Lansky and your uncle.”

“Confidentiality is the number one rule in my business, and as long as I know I can share this meeting with Uncle Fabio and Meyer, I feel comfortable in keeping this discreet.”

“What do you know about Mr. Lansky’s past relationship with the State of Israel?”

“Not much except what my uncle has told me. Meyer is very secretive about his private life and doesn’t talk about his Polish Jewish heritage.”

“Then let me tell you about Meyer. Since Israel was created, he has stepped up financially and in other ways to rally support for our cause, even drawing help and significant donations from his friends in the Mafia.”

Lou’s back stiffens as he stretches in his chair like a lion ready to attack. He spits out the words, “There is no such thing as the Mafia. My family, Meyer, and I are just businessmen.”

Sensing his faux pas, Wolfgang backtracks. “Please forgive my choice of words. My English is not so good, my apology.”

Calming down, Lou accepts, and Wolfgang continues. “I’m sure you’re aware of the contribution of the Italian community in America and their Sicilian counterparts have made to the USA government in assisting with the invasion of Italy during World War II.” “Yes, my Uncle Fabio and many of our family and friends were directly involved and proudly talk about it. They have some interesting stories about their subversive activities. The US Government quietly awarded many of them civilian honors for their patriotism years after the war.”

“Meier Suchowlański, or Meyer Lansky, as you know him, is also a patriot to his new homeland. Do you know he has donated a good portion of his wealth, hundreds of millions of dollars, to Israel, financing the purchase of arms for our survival when we declared an independent state? In 1945, prior to the State 267

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of Israel, the Israeli intelligence agency, Haganah, organized an operation for a clandestine arms purchasing and smuggling network throughout the United States. One faction that was a part of this and remains anonymous was led by Meyer Lansky and his associates. With the help of Albert Anastasia and Joe Adonis, who controlled of the longshoremen’s union, as well as the docks on the US ports, they assisted our agents in smuggling arms purchased for Israel.”

Stopping his speech, Wolfgang clears his throat and asks, “May I have a glass of water please?”

Not wanting to break Lou’s attention, Pat jumps up and walks to the sideboard, pours a glass of water from the decanter of water and ice, and carries it to Wolfgang.

Taking several big gulps, Wolfgang sets the glass down and continues. “Meyer’s people helped the Israeli agents conceal the illegal consignments, some of it new US military equipment, and load them onto ships bound for Israel.” Again pausing, Wolfgang starts to laugh. “I was actually on one mission in New York when some legally purchased arms bound for Egypt mysteriously fell overboard. All I could think of was my American history lessons about the Boston Tea Party.”

Throughout the talk, Pat sits quietly and watches Lou, trying to read his poker face.

“Okay, thank you on Meyer’s past history, but what does that have to do with me and why are you here?” Lou asks.

At this point, Pat breaks in. “You’re aware of the tensions in the Middle East between Israel and the Arab League, in particularly Egypt. War could break out at any time, and with the coalition Nassar has put together, it could mean the end of Israel and massive death and destruction. A win for Nassar could light a fire of Arab nationalism and socialism throughout the Middle East. The monarchies in the Gulf, Saudi and even Jordan could fall. Right now, Jordan has publicly committed support for 268

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Nassar, but behind the scenes, King Hussein is worried that the Hashemite Dynasty will be next to fall.”

“What about Saudi Arabia? Do they support Nassar?”

Wolfgang takes another sip of water. “Like Jordan, they do so publicly, and our intelligence tells us they have even committed some troops to be sent to Jordan, not to fight, but as support only. King Faisal bin Abdulaziz Al Saud is savvy enough to understand his control of his country and its oil wealth depends on the USA.” Pausing, Wolfgang turns to Pat and continues, “He will not bite the hand that feeds him. American protection of Saudi will be there if needed, as will British protection of the Trucial states. But no outside help can prevent internal strife and revolution. If radical religious factions get their way, places like your Ten Tola and Ras Al Khaimah Casino will be the first to be abolished, symbols of the decadence of the West.”

Getting impatient, Lou again butts in. “Neither of you have yet to tell me what you want from me.”

This time Pat answers. “Wolfgang’s people have spoken to Meyer and were told that you were in the best position to help us. You may remember the news last year when an Iraqi Air Force pilot flew his Soviet made Mig 21 to Israel. This gave Israel’s fledgling Air Force the ability to train against the Arab League’s aerial superiority. The pilot also gave information on the disposition of Egyptian and Jordanian aircraft. Since then, Israel and the USA have made contacts with top Air Force officers in Jordan, who are afraid Egypt will bring down Jordan if they are successful against Israel. These officers are prepared to provide updated intelligence information that could give Israel an edge.

Unfortunately, we haven’t been able to make direct contact or to be able to send an operative to Amman to get the information.

Meyer and your uncle felt that with your location in the Middle East, you could help.”

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“Me? I’ve lived here for less than two years. My Arabic is only passable, and my profession makes me stick out like a sore thumb. I’m the wrong guy.”

“What about your partner, Sam?” Pat asks. “He’s a fluent Arabist, military trained, and knows his way around.”

“I thought you guys were professionals. That’s just why he’s not right for this. Every Arab intelligence agency has a file on him and his role as a military advisor in the Trucial States.” Lou turns toward Pat. “You must have someone else to do this.”

“The USA has to remain neutral at this time. If the US is ever implicated in passing secrets against the Arabs to Israel, the political fallout could be catastrophic for both countries.”

As silence envelopes the room, Pat fidgets with the flower vase on the end table next to him.

Finally, Pat speaks out, “What about our new headmaster?

As school board members, you and I voted to approve his traveling to Lebanon to hire teachers for our new school. Maybe we can get the board to put Jordan on his itinerary also. We have received applications from several American teachers looking to relocate due to the political tensions there. No one in Jordan would have any concern about a clean-cut school headmaster on a recruitment trip.”

“Pat, he’s a babe in the woods, new to the Middle East. He doesn’t even know rudimentary Arabic, and little about the culture and behavior of Arabs.”

“Lou, the timing is perfect. He’s scheduled to go to Lebanon on May ninth. We can tag Amman on the front of his trip and push Beirut back a few days.”

“Let me think about it.”

“Yes, but time is of the essence, so two days only,” Wolfgang retorts.

With that, Pat and Wolfgang stand. “Let me walk you down,” Lou says as he too stands.

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Walking over to Lou, Pat offers his hand. “Thank you. We’ve taken enough of your time. We’ll find our way out.”

As soon as Lou closes and locks the office door from the inside, the two wall bookcases slide in opposite directions, allowing Sam to exit the secure control room door. Casually he strolls over and pulls back the curtains, watching through the two-way glass as the two visitors exit the front door. Pulling out a chair from the table, Sam sits down and looks at Lou. “Well, what’s the plan, partner?”

“Hell, I don’t have a plan. I can’t let Luca take this on. He’d be like a virgin in a whorehouse. Everyone there will want to fuck him, or maybe worse.”

“What if you send someone with him? Someone who speaks Arabic, has military training—and owes you one.”

“You already heard me, you’re out.”

“Think, Lou. Who else owes you and even has experience in Jordan?”

Quietly, Lou pulls back a chair from the table, sits, and stretches his legs in front of him. Pulling the lever on the chair, the back reclines and Lou lies, almost prone, looking at the ceiling. Suddenly, he jumps up. “Mohammed! Do you think he will do it, accompany Luca?”

“Mohammed will do anything for you. He and Abdulla will never forget how you saved their asses.”

“I need to go to Ras Al Khaimah tomorrow to see Toufiq on casino business. Can you see if Mohammed is available? Better yet, can you come with me?”

“Certainly, I can meet him before you do to set things up, but you swore confidentiality on this, and since I’m not supposed to be in the loop, you’ll have to talk to him alone.”

“Understood.”

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**** Monday May 1, 1967

The new road from Dubai to Ras Al Khaimah, funded by the Saudis and built by bin Ladin Contracting, makes the drive more pleasurable and a short two hours. Lou likes to drive himself, but today he has sequestered Chandran from Tim, so he and Sam can sit in the backseat and discuss Ten Tola business issues.

“My meeting with Toufiq is at eleven. What time did you ask Mohammed to meet us?”

“I’m meeting him at noon, and we’ll be at the hotel about one.”

“What do you plan to tell him?”

“Only that you’re concerned about your family friend, young Luca, going off on his own to Jordan, and that you want to ask him if he can accompany him, kinda as low-key security. I’ll tell him that he will be provided with tickets and will be paid for his expenses, time, and lost wages for the days he’s absent from his Security Force job. What do you plan to tell Luca?”

“Just that with the political tensions in Jordan, the board has received several applications from American teachers who want to leave after this school year, and we felt he should interview them, considering they are already Middle East hands and their experience can be helpful to him. I’ve given him the résumés, and his schedule will be adjusted for him to go to Jordan first and then Beirut.”

Leaning forward over the front seat to talk to Chandran, Lou asks, “Can we go by the site of the new Hotel Ras Al Khaimah?

There should be some activity there with bin Landin Construction doing site preparation. Do you know the location on the beach?”

“Oh, yes, sir. I saw the sign the last time I was here.”

Slowly driving by the site, Lou expresses to Sam his disappointment at the lack of activity. “At this rate, it will be 272

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1970 or 71 before it’s ready. Something else for Toufiq and me to discuss.”

Pulling up to the front of the casino at the old hotel, Lou opens his door and exits the vehicle. “I’ll see you and Mohammed in a couple of hours.”

Walking into the hotel lobby, Lou’s greeted by the friendly staff. He’s pleased that Abuzian’s staff and management of the casino have proven to be so professional and cost efficient, and that Toufiq has also given the Abuzian Catering Company the contract to run the hotel. “I’m sure that Toufiq and the Ruler get their ten percent, but hey, that’s business in the Middle East,” he utters to himself with a smile.

Looking up at the glass mirrored walls, he recollects his first meeting with Albert Abuzian in the Casino Du Liban in Beirut, and how impressed he was with the one-way glass wall that he copied the idea for his casino as well as the Ten Tola.

Entering the casino office, he sees Toufiq quietly sitting at the meeting table, sipping a coffee and smoking a cigarette. As Lou enters, Toufiq sets the fag in the ashtray, stands, and walks to him, giving him the three-cheeker kiss. “Lou, we haven’t talked since the Ten Tola grand opening. What a spectacular evening.”

“Thank you, Toufiq. I’m so pleased you could attend the event. Shall we go over the financials?” Sitting down, Lou pulls out a spreadsheet and discusses details with Toufiq. “Business is a bit down, but Albert Abuzian just signed a contract with the ship chandelling company, Gray McKenzie, for their Gray Swift crew change service to use the hotel for their replacement crews while they wait to board their ship. They collect the crews at the Dubai airport and transport them by car to the Hotel Ras Al Khaimah for a night or two, and eventually they put them on a launch to their ship. Most of the crew are European with money in their pockets, so we hope it will help the casino revenues. The greatest part of the deal is that our company’s shipyards in Dubai and RAK got the contract to build the new crew boats.”

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“That’s wonderful news. His Highness will be pleased. He’s disappointed with the drop in revenue, but he understands the political tensions have frightened our high rollers from other Arab countries, especially the Saudis.”

“About that,” Lou says. “What’s your take on the situation?

I’ve been getting a bit nervous. Sam has explained some of the Gulf leaders’ attitude toward Nassar’s Nationalism movement.

You know this area well. What do you think?”

“I’m mixed blood, my mother is a Palestinian Arab and my father Armenian, so I can see both points of view more clearly than most. My grandfather’s family were refugees from the 1915 genocide, and my mother’s family lost all their property when Israel was created. To be honest, I believe the Arabs have a lot to gain if they could just get along and settle their differences with the Israelis.” Toufiq leans back. “Just think about it, with Arab oil money and Israeli technology and work ethic, the two could make the desert green, the breadbasket of the world. They could control the world food supply as well as energy and world finances. It’s a marriage made in heaven, or paradise. Eventually, we’ll all find out they’re the same place.”

“What about politically?” Lou asks. “Will the Gulf rulers support the Arab League and Nassar?”

“Of course. Their public rhetoric and media releases will be pro Nassar. It has to look like they’re supportive. But the royal families in the Gulf and Saudi know that success by Nassar will eventually be their demise. Maybe not immediately, but over time. You shouldn’t worry about this, Lou. The Arab-Jewish debacle has been going on for thousands of years and it will probably continue long after were gone.” Toufiq stands. “I need to excuse myself. I have a meeting with the Ruler. One more thing. His Highness has decided he wants to change the name of the new hotel to the Ibn Majid Hotel, once the new Ras Al Khaimah Hotel is finished. “ 274

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“That’s fine with me. I looked at the site of the new hotel today. At the rate the contractor is going, it will be several years before we have to deal with that.”

“Thanks for the financials. I’ll brief the Ruler. Take care.”

As Toufiq reaches the door, he turns to Lou. “Have you had any contact with Scotty La Rouche? His Highness seems disappointed with their progress in the offshore concession.”

“I know that the seismic has been completed and is being processed. Have they made their yearly rental payment to the government?”

“Yes, financially they’ve met all of their commitments.”

“Tell Shaikh Saqr I’ll look into this and get back to you.”

“Thanks, Lou. Talk soon.”

After Toufiq’s departure, Lou walks the floor of his casino, pulls a few slot handles, and checks the crap and roulette tables.

Spinning the roulette wheel, he feels disappointed the venture hasn’t developed as quickly as he hoped, but it’s making money and it hasn’t been open long enough to draw the right clientele.

Give it time.

Returning to the hotel lobby, Lou stops to collect a copy of the Daily Reuters Bulletin news sheet and orders a coffee while he waits for Mohammed.

Hearing footsteps approach, he looks up from his reading and sees Mohammed briskly walking toward him. Lou stands just in time for Mohammed’s big bear hug, which lifts him off the ground and gently sets him down again.

“Sadiqi,” he says and bends in to rub noses with Lou. “What did I call you?” he asks, testing Lou’s Arabic progress with different Arabic phrases.

“My friend,” Lou correctly responds.

“As-Salaamu Aleekum.”

“Peace be upon you.”

“Taruuh! Imshii!”

“Go away.”

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“Yalla, Ta’akul.”

“Let’s go eat lunch,” Lou replies. “Class is over.”

“Yes, good idea,” Mohammed responds with his big toothy grin.

Sitting at a corner table, the two friends catch up on news of Mohammed’s family and career.

As the food is placed on the table, Lou asks, “Did Sam tell you why I wanted to meet?”

“Yes. Just let me know when, and I’ll be ready to accompany your friend. Is he family?”

“A cousin brother, as you call your fellow tribesmen. I feel responsible for bringing him to the Trucial States and need to watch over him until he gets his bearings, so to speak. This is his first trip in the area alone.”

“I understand,” Mohamed replies in his British-accented English. “I felt lost when I was first in England until one of the older officers took me under his wing. I will take your cousin brother under my wing for you.”

“Thank you.” Lou sucks in a deep breath. “What do you think of the political situation with Egypt and Israel? Are you concerned about the Jordanian support for Nassar and the Arab League?”

Mohammed laughs. “Arab countries can never be a part of a joint league with a combined military under a Supreme Commander like the allies in World War II. Everyone would want to be in charge, and no one would want to fight. We’re not cowards, and we would fight to protect our country, but we’re not interested in fighting for someone else’s country. I fear Nassar will become just another despot posing as the great salvation of the Arab world. You can already see that power is changing him.

My allegiance is to my shaikh and my tribe, like Sam’s loyalty is to his queen, and yours is to your president. If Nassar gets his way, all the rulers of the area will eventually be gone.”

“What about Jordan? They seem to support Nassar.”

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“Just a façade. I remember my military training there. The Arab Legion, now the Jordanian Army, are the best trained troops in the Middle East. But the army and the people’s loyalty are to their king and that comes before Arab nationalism. He is a direct descendent of the Prophet Mohammed, peace be upon him, and custodian over holy sites, including Mecca. This role gives them more pride and stature than being part of some league of Arab nations. The king is in the same boat as the other monarchies in the area. Say what you need to say to placate the nationalists, but more importantly, do what is necessary to survive.”

“Mohammed, I appreciate this. Since you and Luca don’t know each other, can we be a bit clandestine about this? I don’t want him to know we’re babysitting him. We’ll put you on the same flights and in hotel rooms close to each other. Most of his teacher interviews will be in the hotel, so there will be very little need to move about Amman or Beirut except for tourism.”

“If that is what you want, I will be invisible.”

“Thank you, Mohammed. Sam or I will be in touch regarding details of the trip. I owe you one.”

“La, no. I still owe you, Sadiqi.”

As Mohammed walks away, Lou calls out, “Ma’salama,” and sits silently.

Sam steps out and joins Lou. “How’d it go?”

“Very well. Mohammed’s agreed to be covert without Luca knowing he’s watching him. I’ve decided that when I tell Pat that we can use Luca as the pick-up man, I’ll keep Mohammed’s bodyguard role out of it.”

“In my training and experience, the less information you volunteer and the less your handler knows, the better,” Sam says. “Just keep it between us.”

“You’re right. We need to head back to Dubai so I can talk to Pat.”

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As they start to depart, Lou stops. “I’ll use the house phone to call Pat before we leave so we can meet as soon as we’re back at the Ten Tola. I’ll be out in a minute.”

On the ride back to Dubai, Lou reflects on what is transpiring, while Sam sprawls across the backseat sound asleep. **** “Thanks for coming at such short notice,” Lou says as he greets Pat in the Ten Tola and guides him to a back table. “This will be short so we can just sit down here. Can I offer you a drink?”

Pat lifts his left wrist, looks at his watch, and responds, “Almost six. Time for a scotch on the rocks.”

“Two Black Labels on ice,” Lou yells to the barman, then turns to Pat. “I’ve decided Luca can be your bagman. But I want a guarantee he won’t be put in any danger.”

Before responding, Pat allows the server to put the drinks in front of them and lifts his glass. “Cheers,” he says, clinking Lou’s drink, and then takes a big swig. “I swear, he’ll be safe.

One of the teachers he’s to interview is an American married to the son of a high-ranking Jordanian Air Force General. She will meet Luca for the interview in a small restaurant two blocks from the hotel. Before she departs, she’ll ask him if he will take a small gift back to Dubai for a friend. She’ll open the box so he can see it’s just a souvenir from the famous archaeological site in Jordan’s southwestern desert, the city of Petra. Something all the gift shops have.”

“How do I get it from Luca without making him wonder why I want it?”

“You don’t. On the box is written the name ‘Ahmed’ and a Dubai phone number. When Luca calls that number, Ahmed will answer and arrange to pick up the gift from Luca’s office.

Done.”

“Pat, when this is over, tell Wolfgang that when I need a 278

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favor from the Mossad, I get it.”

Pat just smiles, lifts his glass, and finishes the drink. “As the school board secretary, I anticipated you would agree and have already had Luca’s itinerary and schedule in Amman and Beirut revised, as well as flights, hotels, and ground transport. He’s just going on a recruiting trip. Here’s a copy so you can follow his journey.” Pat stands. “See you at the next school board meeting,” he says and leaves.

Lou anxiously climbs the stairs to the office and opens the door as Sam comes out of the control room.

“Damn, Lou, pretty bold, telling the Mossad they owe you a favor.”

For some reason, Sam’s comment makes Lou break out in a cathartic spell of laughter, releasing his body tension.

He chortles until tears run down his cheeks. “That just came to my head unrehearsed. I loved Pat’s steely response. I guess he’s pretty good at his job.” He tosses the envelope with the itinerary to Sam. “Can you arrange Mohammed’s flights and hotel bookings? They even have Luca’s room number on the schedule, so try to get him a room close, but not too close.”

“Will do. See you later.”

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Chapter 21 The Unsuspecting Spy Tuesday May 9, 1967

“I really appreciate the ride to the airport, Lou,” Luca says.

“It seems out of your way, having to cross the Maktoum Bridge to pick me up.”

“Hey, this is what friends and family do.”

“Can you check in on Susan while I’m gone?”

“Everyday. I’ll take her and the kids out to my new beach villa for a swim and barbecue on Friday. Just Frankie and a few friends coming.”

“Will Felicity be there?” Luca asks. “I saw the way you looked at her when we were sitting at the table for your grand opening.”

“That obvious, huh? She seems like a nice girl, but I have to respect Frankie’s interest in her.”

“Trust me, cousin, Frankie is not seriously interested. He’s a player. Susan and I have met him twice since the party, and both times he was with someone else.”

“Thanks for the insight. I’ll just pull up to the departure door.

Passport, ticket money, got everything?”

“I’m good.”

Exiting the driver’s door, Lou is mobbed by a small crowd of eager porters vying for the one riyal a bag fee. “You,” he says pointing to the smallest boy standing just outside of the group.

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Opening the trunk, he lets the little porter struggle to pick up the bag.

“Have a good trip, my friend, and don’t worry. Call if you need anything.” Pulling out a ten riyal note, Lou hands it to the young boy.

“You always favored the underdog.” Luca smiles, watching the small baggage handler struggling with his suitcase. “Thanks again for everything. I’ll see you in a week or so.”

As Luca walks through the departure door, passport in hand for inspection, Lou spots Mohammed, dressed in Western clothes, a few paces behind, and smiles. **** Friday May 12, 1967

It’s nice to hear the sounds of kids playing, Lou thinks as he looks at the beach scene. He’s been living in an adult world for so long he’s forgotten what it feels like to have family, especially little ones, around. His houseboy, Ashokan, and a couple of his hired friends have the grill and refreshment bar under control, giving Lou the freedom to entertain and relax.

Sitting around the beach patio, Ed Stroller, Tim, Sam, and Josh Sampson, MOMS manager in charge of offshore maintenance, are kibitzing with cold beers in their hands while their ladies enjoy the water.

Looking at his new friend, Lou can’t resist. “Josh, with your fire red hair and matching bushy beard, you look like you could be a salty sea captain.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, Lou. The closest I was to the sea was when those asshole Special Forces instructors in the Marines threw me out of a helicopter into the ice cold Atlantic.

Being a Big Sky Butte, Montana, boy, the cold didn’t bother me, but treading water for six hours got a bit tiring,” he said with a 281

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wholehearted laugh. “Until we moved to Dubai, I hadn’t lived anywhere near the sea.”

“You guys are pussies compared to us British SAS,” Sam mocks.

Standing and posing in a John L. Sullivan bare-fisted boxer’s stance, a smiling Josh says, “Those are fighting words,” and then walks up to Sam and gives him a hug. “Brothers in arms,” he declares to the mock cheers of the slowly-becoming-inebriated spectators.

“Special Forces, huh, Josh? So, you were a Green Beret?”

Lou asks.

“Yes, sir, but I like the term Special Forces. Makes me feel special, just like my teachers always told me in those special classes they made me take in grade school.” Josh and everyone else laughs. “Just let me know if you ever need anything blown up under water, or—on top. Happy to teach you.”

“I’ll remember that, Josh. Good to have friends like you.”

Lou looks toward the young kids and ladies having a good time in the water. “I see your wife has become a good friend of Luca Luchetti’s wife, Susan.”

“Dubai has a way of matching like-minded people. We both have three kids almost the same age, model, and make, two girls and a boy to Luca’s two boys and a girl, and Sue and Nellie seem to have a lot in common,” Josh says.

“Glad to see your families have found each other. The Falconis and Luchettis are good friends and good people, and Luca is a diver like all of us.”

Frankie exits from the house through the patio doors into the afternoon heat with two lovely ladies. “Hi, gang. Sorry we’re late. Please meet my new friend, April Robins, a teacher at the English school. And this is Flick Maris, a friend of April’s and mine. I think some of you met Flick at the grand opening party.”

“I met a beautiful girl named Felicity who looks a lot like Flick,” Lou says with a grin.

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“Smart-ass cousin.”

“Trust me, I’m the same girl, but with dual personalities.

During the day, I’m Felicity, the prim. proper secretary to that man over there,” Flick says, pointing to Ed Stroller, McDermott VP. “After eight. I become Flick, lady of the night, devoid of any inhibitions. Well, I still have a few hang ups,” she adds as everyone laughs.

“Let me get you a drink to help get rid of those inhibitions,” Lou suggests. “There’s still time for a swim before lunch, if you three want to hit the water.”

“You girls go ahead and change so you can get your tans. I’m gonna stay here and bullshit with the boys,” Frankie says.

“Pull up a chair, my cousin. Shu Akhbar. What’s the news, Frankie?” Lou offers, practicing his Arabic homework.

“Interesting that you mention diving, cuz. Last night I was with my local friend Mohammed. It seems that a friend of his father had to scuttle a dhow of goods being exported, and they’re looking for a crew to help salvage it.”

“Duh,” Ed chides. “You’re the VP of a company that has a professional diving division.”

“I offered that, but he said they wanted to keep it lowkey and were looking for people outside of the professional companies and make it look like a bunch of sport divers and fishermen in the area.”

“Sounds fishy to me, no pun intended,” Ed replies.

“Mohammed’s a good guy. Right now, he’s going to school in London and is scheduled to attend the British Military Academy, Sandhurst, for training later this year. When he’s in Dubai, he likes to keep his hands in his dad’s business. He told me he doesn’t trust some of the people his dad uses as advisors.”

“That’s probably the reason he wants to keep it lowkey, without his dad’s people knowing,” offers Sam. “Well, I think it could be fun to do some salvage diving,” Frankie says. “And we could make some extra dough. If anyone’s 283

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interested, let me know. I need four or five good divers to help.

We’ll use one of the fishing boats MOMS uses to entertain clients.”

“I’m in,” Lou responds without hesitation.

“Me too,” chimes in Josh.

“I’m good to go,” Sam says.

“Sorry, guys, I’ll be out of town.” Ed frowns.

“If you can wait one week, my cousin Luca will be back,” Lou says. “He’s a certified PADI instructor and could be a good hand to have with us.”

“That will work,” Frankie says. “We can go on the afternoon of the twenty-fifth and leave from our company boat repair dock.

Like all companies here, we close at one on Thursdays for the weekend, so let’s meet at two with your gear.”

“Looks like we’ve got our dream team, Frankie. Sam, Josh, Luca, and me.”

“Wait a minute, Lou, what about me? You gonna leave me out?” Tim Johnson asks as he joins the group.

“Out of sight, out of mind, and late as usual,” Frankie says, adding, “Shit, you don’t even dive.”

“Hell, no, I’m not getting in that water. Do you know what those fish do in it? But I’m a great deck captain.”

Frankie sighs. “I agree you are a good man at the helm.

Okay, you can come, but this is serious work, so none of your screwing around. Got it?”

“Now that we’ve settled that, you’ll have to excuse me, gents. I need to use the head and then take a swim before we eat,” Lou announces as he starts to enter the house.

“Where you going, Lou?” Josh shouts. “Didn’t that Harvard place teach you about multi-tasking? You have your swim trunks on, and there’s a big toilet at the end of that sandy beach. Do you think Sam and I told our military instructors, ‘Excuse me, I have to pee. Can we come out of the water to use the toilet?’”

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To the laughs of his guests, Lou turns and runs toward the blue water of the Gulf.

Entering the water down current from the girls and kids, Lou reunites his bodily fluid with the sea and then swims toward April and Felicity. “Great water temperature. Just cool enough below the air temperature to feel refreshing. If it wasn’t salty, you could even bathe in it, but makes for great buoyancy for just floating.”

“Are you insinuating we need to take a bath?” Flicks asks with a flirty smile and a raised eyebrow.

“No, no, not at all. You smell great, I think.”

Seeing the interaction and sensing pheromones in the air, April quietly backstrokes towards Ellie, Susan, and the kids.

“How about you have dinner with me tomorrow night and let me see you transition from Felicity to Flick?”

“I’m sorry, but that takes more than dinner.”

“I’d offer a movie too, but the only one is the open-air picture theater in Jumairah, and they only show Bollywood movies.”

“Bollywood films are good, but I have a better idea.

McDermott brings in reel-to-reel movies, and employees can sign up to use the film and projector at home. Let me check what movies they have and what night is available.”

“That’s a deal.”

“Hey, you two,” Susan yells. “They’re calling us for lunch.” **** Monday May 15, 1967

Within a few minutes of Luca’s arrival at the restaurant, his teacher candidate, Rita Hashemi walks in the door and approaches the only customer in a western suit and tie.

“Mr. Luchetti?”

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Luca stands, “Yes, you must be Mrs. Hashemi,” the headmaster addresses. “Please have a seat, “he says as he pulls her chair back from the table. “What can I offer you for lunch?”

“Nothing to eat, just tea, thank you.”

Luca raises his hand and gestures to the waiter standing near their table. “Just two mint teas, please,” and then turns his attention to his guest.

“I’ve had a chance to look over your resume, and its impeccable, great experience, wonderful recommendations.

You’d be a great addition to the staff at our new school in Dubai.

One problem we may face is that with our limited budget and available accommodations, we need to put two single teachers together in one two-bedroom apartment. I see you have no children, but you are married, and that complicates the situation.”

Before she replies, the waiter places a cup of tea in front of each of them and a plate of Arabic cookies in the middle of the table. “Anything else, sir?” he asks in Arabic.

Luca smiles. “Sorry, I don’t speak Arabic.”

Rita responds to the waiter, “La shukron. No, thank you,” in Arabic and English, and resumes the conversation with Luca.

“Yes, I understand. My husband would be unable to join me immediately. Maybe once he can come, we could consider a housing allowance and find a place of our own. He also has potential job offers in Dubai.”

“That might work,” Luca says. “Let me discuss it with my school board and get back to you. I want to thank you for coming.

You have a beautiful country, full of history. I hope to come back some day as a tourist with my family.”

Lifting her purse to the table, Rita Hashemi opens it and retrieves a small box. She opens the top and removes a cylindrical silver tube connected on each end with a fine silver chain. “Would I be imposing if I asked you take this gift to Dubai for the wife of a friend of my husband? It’s just an inexpensive trinket from Petra. She’s from that area, and we wanted to send 286

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her a small birthday gift that would remind her of home. Her husband’s name and number are on the box. Just call him, and he’ll come to collect it.”

“I would be happy to,” Luca says and takes the gift, putting it in his briefcase with Rita’s file.

At a table in the back of the restaurant, a young man wearing denim jeans, a loose shirt, and sneakers watches the exchange over the top of his opened newspaper.

Luca and Rita stand. She covers her head with her scarf, and they exit together.

While still watching the two educators at the front of the bistro, the Western-dressed customer pays for his tea. As Rita enters a taxi, Luca starts the short walk to his hotel, and the stranger follows.

Just as Luca approaches a small alley, the young man runs up behind him, grabs the briefcase, and scurries down the narrow walkway. Luca runs after him, but soon finds the path splits off into a number of passageways, all in different directions.

Looking around and seeing no one to help, he returns to his hotel to report the theft.

Unknown to Luca, his guardian angel is familiar with the streets and alleys of Amman and is also following. Using his Bedouin senses to track the thief through the maze, he sees him enter a small, unoccupied tea shop. A second, heavy-set man with a full beard and dressed in the traditional Jordanian white thoub with a well-worn suit jacket runs to the door, closes the window curtain, and turns the door latch to lock it.

Watching through a small crack between the curtain and doorframe, Mohammed sees the young man set the case on the worktable, open and remove the small box, and hand it to the corpulent man, who returns to the front door, unlocks it, and starts to exit. Before he is out of the shop, Mohammed strikes.

He grabs the man’s arm and painfully twists it behind his back.

Quickly he marches him back inside, and with his free hand 287

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turns the latch to lock the door, then walks the accomplice to the back of the shop, joining the young thief.

Grabbing a small lemon-slicing knife from the table, Mohammed holds it to his captive’s juggler veins. “Give me the box,” he demands in Jordanian Arabic.

The profusely sweating man struggles to reach into his tightfitting suit jacket pocket but retrieves the small package.

Again, in Arabic, Mohammed says, “Slowly put it on the table. Now have your friend slide the briefcase towards the box.”

“Sirhan, do what he says,” the fat man pleads in Arabic to his accomplice.

As he does, Mohammed releases the man’s neck, grabs the parcel and briefcase, and then stabs the man in the back several times. Knowing the three-inch knife won’t penetrate deep enough through the thick layers of fat to hit any organs or major arteries, his intent is not to kill or totally disable him, but he hopes the immediate pain will slow him down enough to give him a head start.

Better not to get caught murdering a Jordanian, Mohammed thinks as he pulls the knife out of the soft flesh and roughly pushes the bleeding man toward his accomplice, knocking them both to the floor as he backs to the front door, unlocks it, and disappears into the maze of alleys.

Safely returning to his hotel room, Mohammed changes from his Western dress to his Arab dishdasha and checkered headscarf, blending in with the rest of the male Jordanian population. An hour later, he returns to the lobby and deposits the briefcase behind the unattended concierge desk.

Having already explained to the duty manager what had transpired, the frantic Luca takes the advice of the manager and retires to his room, sure that his briefcase is gone forever. Within an hour, he hears a gentle knock on the door. Opening it, he faces the manager with his briefcase.

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“See, as I told you, sir, Jordan is a safe country. We have many poor people but no thieves. If someone did take it, they would realize it was a mistake and seeing the hotel tag on the bag, returned it to us. Can you open it to see if anything is missing?”

Quickly rummaging through the contents, Luca searches for the things important to him, passport, tickets, and work folders.

“Yes, everything seems to be here. Thank you so much,” and overly tips the manager.

Back in his room, he lies on the bed to calm his jangled nerves. He closes his eyes and recalls the incident, just to make sure he isn’t confused about the snatch and grab incident. Lifting his arm, he looks at his watch and thinks, “I should call Lou and tell him about this. He’ll be in his office at the Ten Tola in a couple of hours,” then falls asleep.

When he wakes, he dials the operator and gives them the Dubai number. Several minutes later, his phone rings.

“Mr. Falconi, I have Mr. Luca Luchetti on the line.”

“Thank you.”

“Luca, is everything okay?” an anxious Lou asks.

“Everything has gone well so far, just checking in. We have a couple of good candidates. I did have a small incident earlier.

Someone snatched my briefcase when I was walking back to my hotel, but it showed up a short time later.”

“Was anything stolen?”

“I looked through it, and everything seems to be there.”

“Why don’t you take another look while we’re on the line so I can replace anything you might need.”

“Sure, it’s right here.” He lifts the case onto the bed and opens it.

“Nope, all here—wait, there was a small box, a gift that one of the teachers asked me to take to a friend in Dubai. It seems to be missing. She showed me what it was—just a souvenir. I’m sure it wasn’t valuable. I better give her a call and tell her.”

“No, don’t do that. Are you planning to hire her?”

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“I’d like to, but she has some complications with her husband’s situation.”

“Then wait until you’re back here. Maybe the board can work out the problems. It would be less of a disappointment losing the gift if she got good news about a job first.”

“Good idea. Thanks, Lou. I’m off to Beirut in the morning, and then home in a few days. This trip has really been a great experience. Thank you again.”

“Hey, we’re family. You take care,” Lou says and the phone clicks.

As soon as he breaks the call, Lou dials the number of Luca’s hotel. “Mr. Mohammed al Qassim’s room, please.” After two rings, he hears, Na’am (yes), Mohammed ma’ak (with you).”

In Gulf Arabic, Lou speaks only one phrase, “What is the news (Shu Akhbar)?”

Recognizing the voice, Mohammed replies, also in his native Khaleegi (Gulf) Arabic. “The news is very good. All is in the hands of God.” Hearing the reply Lou relaxes, knowing the box is in the best hands possible. “Shukron, ma’salama (thank you and peace be with you).” He hangs up the phone. **** Friday May 19, 1967

With Sam’s Land Rover filled with three wild urchins, Lou and Susan arrive at the airport to collect Luca. Leaving the vehicle at the curb in a no parking zone, Lou shakes hands with the policeman on duty, slipping the fifty riyal note to him. Inside, they climb the stairs to the balcony overlooking the arrivals.

Seeing their dad enter from the tarmac, the kids wave and yell down to him, and then scramble for the stairs to greet him after his quick immigration check.

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As their father exits the door, the little rascals run up to hug him, leaving Lou and Susan standing back watching.

“Did you bring me anything?” they ask almost in unison.

“I don’t know. We’ll have to check to see if there’s anything in my suitcase when we’re back at the hotel.”

“Surprise! We don’t live in the hotel anymore. We have a beach house right by Uncle Lou’s,” little Dana tells her dad.

Respecting the cultural guidelines of not showing public displays of affection, Susan gives Luca a light hug without kissing him, but whispers in his ear, “I missed you.”

Watching the scene with envy, Lou wonders if he will ever be so lucky to have a family.

Walking back to their parked car, a man approaches Lou from behind, bumps into him, and says, “Excuse me,” in a British accent, and continues walking.

As Lou enters the driver’s seat, he feels something solid pressing into his side. Reaching for his pant pocket, he touches a small box and grins. “Is everyone in?” he asks the family before driving off.

Unloading the crew at their new house, Lou, not wanting to intrude on Luca and Susan’s moment, excuses himself by explaining he must get back to the Ten Tola for a meeting.

Returning to his beach house, Lou calls Pat. “Hi Pat, it’s Lou. How about a walk on our beach? I’ll meet you in five.”

Changing into his swim gear, he grabs two cold beers and walks out to the sandy expanse. Seeing a barefooted Pat coming, he beelines toward him. “Beautiful evening for a beach walk and swim,” he declares as he hands Pat the Budweiser. Then, reaching into the pocket of his loose hanging beach shirt, he pulls out the box that was given to Luca in Amman, and hands it to him.

An incredulous look betrays Pat’s usual poker face. “Why do you have this?”

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“I need to come clean. Luca called me several days ago and said his briefcase was stolen and this was the only thing missing.

Not really trusting your friend Wolfgang, I arranged to have Luca surveilled during his trip. That decision saved your CIA and your Mossad friends’ asses.”

“Stop calling me CIA and Wolfgang Mossad,” Pat implores.

“Wolfgang is just a patriot doing what he can to right hundreds of years of wrong to his people.”

“Okay, no Mossad, no CIA, and no Mafia. Agreed.”

Continuing his explanation, Lou explains that his man was able to retrieve the box and handed it off to him just now at the airport. “I guess there’s no need to call Ahmed at the number on the box,” Lou says, smiling at Pat. “But we have some other business at the next school board meeting regarding the hiring of a Jordanian teacher. Luca will present the situation, and you, me, and all of the other board members, will approve his recommendation.”

“We’ll back Luca. Do you have any details on how your man got the box?”

“No, we haven’t talked since he returned this afternoon. He just passed it off. I’ll let you know when I find out in case there is any ass covering you and Wolfgang need to do.”

“Thanks, Lou. Sorry you didn’t feel you could trust us, but glad you didn’t.”

“Here, will you take my empty and put it in your trash? I’m going for a swim and don’t want to litter.”

Pat finishes his beer as he follows Lou’s trek into the water, then heads home with a small box and two empty cans.

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**** Tuesday May 23, 1967

“I call your fifty riyals and raise fifty more,” says Leroy Houston, host of this week’s poker game.

“You may cook the best chili and BBQ ribs in Dubai, Leroy, but I can tell when you’re lying. What about you, Frankie?”

With a dejected look, Frankie throws his cards face down on the table. “Shit, I know you got it. You’re too dumb to bluff.

I’m out.”

“Frankie, you just a chicken shit, honkey redneck,” says Leroy as the doorbell rings continuously. “Must be Tim Johnson, no doubt, late as usual.”

“I’ll get it,” Luca Luchetti, now a regular in the weekly game, offers.

Leroy sets down his cards and shakes his head. “Jesus, Johnson gonna break the fuckin’ bell. Christ, he does that all the fuckin’ time, and he knows the goddamn door’s open. This is the safest place in the world. No one ever locks their door.”

“Yo ho, you bunch of desert dykes,” Tim says as he saunters in, followed by a handsome young man.

Lou plays his “size me up” game, looking at the regal face and strong straight body and senses he’s seen the man before.

If he were dressed in ornate robes and sitting on a camel, you’d find his photo on the cover of National Geographic. Of course.

This is young Mohammed but older, he realizes.

Just then Frankie stands and walks up to the visitor. “Hey, gang, this is my friend Mohammed. Mo, let me introduce you to everyone. Tim, you already know,” he says, then walking toward Leroy, he puts his hand on the back of his shoulder, “This here is our host, Leroy Houston. Over there is Josh Sampson, who works at MOMS—” 293

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Josh walks over to Mohammed and gives him a big Marine handshake.

Frankie takes Mohammed by the hand as he walks over to Lou. “Meet my cousin, Lou Falconi.” Both men look at each other silently, not revealing they had met before, as Lou reaches for Mohammed’s outstretched hand. “Fursa saida (pleased to meet you),” he says in Arabic.

Clasping Lou’s hand, Mohammed responds in English, “My pleasure.”

Frankie continues the introductions. “That kid who answered the door is our new mark, my cousin Luca Luchetti. He’s the new boss of the American School.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mohammed.”

“Standing in the back at the food table is Sam Sweeney, who works with Lou.” With a mouth full of food, a beer in one hand, and a sandwich in another, Sam just nods his head in acknowledgement.

“Gentlemen,” Mohmmed starts, speaking in his very good English, “Frankie told you that you are going to assist in our diving project. I just wanted to stop by and thank you.

Unfortunately, I need to return to London and won’t be able to join you on Thursday.”

“Excuse my manners,” Leroy interrupts, “Let me get you a chair. Would you like a sandwich or something to drink, Mohammed?”

“Something to drink would be fine—non-alcoholic, thank you. I’ll pass on the sandwich.”

Standing, Leroy pulls up a chair for his guest and departs to the kitchen and returns with a glass of the local cola.

Sitting in the chair and taking his drink, Mohammed continues, “I’ve known Tim here a few years since he first came to Dubai and stayed to help build the country. He certainly knows the drilling business.”

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Mohammed takes a courteous sip from the glass, sets it down, and announces, “I enjoyed meeting you gents. Sorry I can’t stay to watch the game, but I have to go. I’ll be talking to Frankie about the dive trip.”

With that, Mohammed proceeds around the table, shakes hands with everyone, and heads for the door as Frankie hurriedly moves forward to escort him to the entrance. As he closes the door, Luca hears him say, “Good night, Shaikh Mohammed.”

As soon as the closing door clicks shut, Luca excitedly exclaims, “Frankie, that was Shaikh Mohammed, the son of the Ruler, Shaikh Rashid!”

“Okay, settle down, Luca. He’s not a king, yet. He stands up to pee just like us. Hell, I’ve known Mohammed for a while.

He’s a cool guy. We’ve been diving, skeet shooting, and riding together. He’s still got the Bedouin spirit in him, but he can be as Western as we are, and he’s real gentleman. Loves the ladies.

Have you ever seen that helicopter flying low over the houses and beach in Jumairah? It’s Mohammed checking out the foreign girls sunbathing. He’s been known to fly under the power lines to look at something special. The girls love him. When they see him coming, they stand up, take off their tops and wave at him.”

Tim waves his hand. “I wasn’t gonna make a big fuss over him. He’d feel uncomfortable. Frankie’s right. He doesn’t want any special treatment. He’s a good guy—just don’t piss him off.”

“You can say that again,” Sam says. “Did you hear what he did at the airport last week? You know those gates that the guard has to lift up to let you in? Seems like the guard was gone, probably takin’ a piss, when Mo pulls up. After blowing the horn for five minutes, he gets pissed, kicks the big Mercedes into first, hits the gas and busts the gates to shit. Doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

“Will he ever become the Ruler?” asks a still awestruck Luca. “Isn’t he third in line for succession?”

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“He’ll eventually run this place,” Tim responds. “He may seem a bit wild now, but once he matures and realizes that his brothers don’t have the ability to take care of business in Dubai, he’ll settle down. He’s still young. You watch, he’ll become Crown Prince, and when the time is right, he’ll take over.”

“You mean he’ll stage a coup and overthrow his brothers?”

“Naw, it doesn’t work like that in Dubai. The Maktoum boys are shrewd, and they have thick blood. They’ll never use force against each other. They’ll just horse bargain, cut some kind of deal. You know, barter, like I’ll give you all of this for that. You just wait. It’ll happen.”

“Let’s get this game on the road,” Leroy calls.

After a few more hands, it’s close to midnight, the agreed quitting time, and Tim is making a big deal over the fact that most of the chips are stacked in front of him.

“Last hand,” calls out Leroy.

As Leroy cashes in the player’s chips, Lou and Frankie stand in the corner discussing Tim’s comments about Mohammed and his predictions for the future.

“So, is that your take on Mohammed too? That he’ll eventually run Dubai?” Lou asks.

“No doubt, but it will take some time. From my experience, he seems like he has the same goals as his father and a real desire to develop Dubai for the benefit of his people.”

“What about his father’s advisors? Will they willingly defer to follow his rule?”

“I don’t know first-hand, but I suspect that Mohammed has some conflict with Majid. He made a comment once that anytime he needs something, money for a purchase, or even a business venture, his father makes him go see Majid. I sense that he resents doing that and the influence that Majid has on his father. If he ever were to determine that Majid takes advantage of his position over the best interests of Dubai, he’d do whatever he needs to get rid of him.”

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Chapter 22 The Poseidon Project Thursday May 25, 1967

It was just after lunch when Josh, Luca, Sam, and Lou arrive at the MOMS boatyard and unload their gear from Josh’s yellow Suzuki jeep.

“Let me go get some help,” Josh offers as he walks toward the boat repair facility toward the jetty in back, and soon returns with several seamen to lug the tanks and other diving equipment to load onto the boat.

Once onboard, Luca starts moving gear around on the deck.

“What are you doing?” Frankie asks.

“Just arranging our gear for easy identification when suiting up. This is how we were taught in my diving instructors’ program to prepare for a dive. Plus, I’m a bit OCD,” he says with a smile.

Finishing his task, he sits down on the blue Naugahyde cushions for what he thinks is a brief trip a few miles offshore. “Nice boat.

What is it?”

“It’s a forty-foot workboat the company converted for fishing.

The engines are high powered, so it has some real speed, and the large deck space allows us to take up to eight fishermen. Great for entertaining clients and cigale fishing,” Frankie responds.

“What’s a cigale?”

“It’s a slipper lobster. They’re like a big crawfish that comes to the surface to spawn twice a year. We scoop them up in nets.

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Better tasting than a claw or spiny lobster, and you don’t have to dive for them.”

“Sounds like fun. Let me know the next time you go out to fish them.”

“Not until October now. We get three or four hundred sometimes and just freeze them, so we have em all year.” Frankie looks behind him. “Tim, can you take the helm? I’m going go down in the cabin for some shuteye. Late night,” Frankie says with a snicker as he walks past his divers.

Seeing Tim alone at the controls, Luca joins him.

“Hey, Luchetti, sounds like a brand of Spaghetti or pasta— Luchetti Spaghetti,” Tim teases.

It was nearly five when Tim slows the engines to a drift and then walks back from the cockpit and instructs the boatmen to set up the outriggers and bait the fishing poles that are stored on deck.

“Why are we slowing down?” Luca asks in an uneasy tone.

“It’ll be dark soon.”

“Just thought we may as well take advantage of the calm seas for a little fishing. We got plenty of time.”

As the boat starts to trawl in an expanding circular pattern, the breezy sea air and rocking motion relaxes an apprehensive Lou, putting him into a tranquil state of confidence.

Lying on the cushioned bench in the stern, Lou scans the sky.

The elements of humidity, heat, and sand particles suspended in the atmosphere provide the perfect ingredients for brewing a soupy brown haze that covers the Arabian Gulf sky. The dreary mixture shelters the descending sun, so only the lightened sky above the horizon gives any indication the day will soon be over.

Realizing the sun is vanishing, Lou moves forward to the cockpit joining Luca and Tim. “Do you plan to bunk down here tonight and start in the morning, he asks Tim?” Without answering Tim cuts the engines and yells, “Hubba, hubba! Veloo, get the car batteries and those underwater lights 298

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and put them on deck. Saleem, bring up those lift bags and assemble that portable winch.”

Luca watches the activity with some concern. “I guess it’s gonna be a night dive after all,” he says to his cousin.

As an experienced professional diver, Frankie is the dive leader directing the team underwater. Emerging from the cabin door, he orders, “Everyone come in here and gather around the table.”

Squeezing into the tight quarters, everyone listens closely as Frankie gives the pre-dive briefing. “We’ve anchored close to where we believe the lost cargo should be located. There are four crates—the biggest is about eight-by-eight feet. We’ll lift the two largest with the portable winch. The others we’ll raise with lift bags. Once we bring them to the surface, the crew will slip the cargo net around ‘em and lift them on deck.”

“How deep is the water here?” Sam asks.

“Sixty-three feet,” Veloo, the first mate, responds.

Veloo and crewman Saleem set up the lights and drop them into the water while the divers put on scuba gear and go through a checkout of one another’s diving equipment. Veloo secures the lift bags, extra lines, and hardware in a heavy rope-net bag tied to a surface float. Weighting the net with a couple of extra tanks, he drops it over the side and watches it descend beneath the smooth surface of the Arabian Gulf waters.

Tim paces back and forth across the deck like an expectant father, then turns abruptly toward the five-man dive team, a beaming smile across his face and his bare feet tapping out a silent jig to accompany his choreographed vocals. “And the five little fishes they swam and they swam right over the dam. Boop Boop Diddim Daddum Waddum Choo!”

The divers shake their heads in amazement as they watch Tim wiggle his fingers in the air as he sings the second chorus, “And they swam and they swam right over the dam.” Slapping his knee on the “Boop Boop,” and his fingers on the “Diddim 299

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Daddum,” he then rolls hand over hand like a basketball coach calling a traveling violation, and sings the “Waddum Choo.”

“Now you little fishes don’t swim over the dam,” he cautions.

Returning to their task, the divers partially inflate their horse collar, buoyancy control device known as a “Fenzy,” grab their masks securely in one hand and regulators in the other, and, one by one, like synchronized swimmers, flip backwards into the water from their perch on the side of the boat. Gathering on the surface and holding onto the anchor line, the team makes one final safety check, turns on their waterproof flashlights, and descends down the line into the black abyss. Once at the bottom, Frankie secures a fifty-foot rope to the anchor, using it as a pivot point. As instructed in the pre-dive brief, Luca positions himself about ten feet from the anchor while Lou moves out to the twenty-foot mark, Sam at thirty, Josh at forty, and Frankie at the end, and they begin a circular search. After five minutes, Frankie tugs three times on the line, indicating that he has found the goods. Josh follows the line out towards Frankie and ties an inflatable surface float to one of the discovered crates so the topside team can move the boat and tether lights overhead.

Frankie selects the largest crate. Using sign language, he instructs Josh and Sam to tip the crate and dig the sand out from under, allowing Frankie and Lou to pass a lift-belt beneath. The team repeats the process on the opposite side of the crate so the steel rings on all four ends of the two belts meet at the center of the square crate.

Working patiently to secure the shackles to the rings and then to the commercial lift-belts, Luca concentrates on watching Frankie guide him from the other side of the sunken box. The underwater lights cast a dim glow on the area where he works. A chill shoots though Luca’s wet body. Just a cold thermal current passing, he thinks as he looks across at Frankie’s glowing eyes, magnified by the glass of his mask and distorted by the bubbles 300

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rising from his regulator. Beyond Frankie’s twisted face is total darkness.

Just as he recovers from his abstract vision of Frankie, Luca feels a strange tingling sensation on the back of his bare neck.

Shit, a poisonous sea snake, he imagines. With racing pulse, he throws up his right hand toward the back of his neck to shoo away the undersea predator that he imagines is trying to nibble on his exposed body, and carelessly knocks the regulator from his mouth.

Think, think, think. What do I do? Luca tries to recall his PADI training.

Getting a bit frantic, he visualizes the manual instructions that tells him to reach over his right shoulder to the air tank, secured on his back, feel his way from the first stage of the regulator, where it connects to the tank to the breathing hose, and then follow the hose until his hand reaches the second stage of the regulator, the breathing apparatus, grab it, and bring it back to his air-starved mouth. As his lungs scream for air, Luca starts the retrieval procedure. You can do it; he keeps telling himself.

Tilting his head back so he can reach the hose, he looks directly at the lights hanging from the boat near the surface where there is fresh clean oxygen. I’m outta here.

Just as he starts his emergency ascent, a hand materializes from out of the darkness and shoves the regulator back into his mouth.

Turning around, Luca sees the mask-covered eyes of a smiling Josh shaking a sea cucumber in his face—the same turdlooking sea animal that he used to tickle his neck.

Having recovered both his dignity and regulator, Luca returns to the task of securing the crate. Frankie checks the team’s work and makes sure that Josh and Luca move away from the box before tugging three times on the lift rope, the pre-arranged signal to haul up the crate with the deck winch. After repeating the process on the second smaller crate, they then swim over to 301

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the two small boxes. Instead of hauling these up by the winch, Frankie opts to use the lift bags. Positioning Josh and Sam on opposite sides of the first crate, Frankie attaches the bag and then slowly inflates it with air from his regulator. As the bag fills, it begins a leisurely graceful ascent to the surface, lifting the small crate like a hot air balloon rising into the sky. Josh and Sam swim upwards, guiding it toward the waiting arms of the crew, who net the box and pull it aboard.

Frankie connects the airbag to the second small crate and slowly inflates it. The bag pulls tightly on the belts that connected it to the box, but only raises a few inches. Frankie grabs the writing slate and grease pencil that’s connected to his weight belt. “TOO HEAVY. NEED WINCH,” he scribbles. Giving Frankie the thumb-touching-forefinger diver’s “OK” sign, the divers begin the sand clearing process and connect the rings of the lift-belts to the shackles, while Frankie surfaces to advise the crew to drop the winch cable.

When the cable drops through the surface above, Frankie grasps it with both hands and swims downwards, guiding the steel, snakelike wire-rope towards the crate, where he connects it to the rings. Before Frankie can give the normal three-tug lift signal, the cable prematurely slithers upward, pulling taunt on the belts. Strange sonar sounds emanate from the now obviously straining umbilical. Sensing danger, Sam, Luca, Lou, and Josh back-paddle to distance themselves from the erratic shifting of the wooden chest. The eerie underwater symphony continues until a loud piercing twang, the resonance of an enormous popping guitar string pierces the dense water, causing a sharp pressure squeeze on the divers’ eardrums.

Lou looks upwards through the lurid lights to the bottom of the boat, trying to trace the source of the sonic vibrations.

Gracefully slithering toward the divers is the spiraling serpentine coil from the winch, Medusa in a free dive.

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Taking advantage of the extra milliseconds the physics of undersea sound waves gives, the four divers put their power fins into motion and frenziedly kick with their arms wildly cutting through water until they navigate even further away from the falling line.

Frankie, misjudging the refracted light from the underwater object coming down from above, moves in the wrong direction, allowing the lengthy cable to encompass his head and tanks in a snarl, like a large Slinky gone wild.

The weight of the coil-wrapped tanks pushes into the seabed, pinning Frankie on his back, legs floating upward seeking their level of buoyancy. A plethora of bubbles exit from the wildly lashing air-hose that was once connected to Frankie’s regulator.

His fellow divers race toward him. Before they reach Frankie, he calmly pulls the large knife from the black rubber scabbard attached to his right calf. Without a second thought, he reaches over with his right hand and slashes the waist belt of the “Fenzy,” and then coolly pulls the orange-colored artificial lung over his head, allowing it to float slowly to the surface. In simultaneous motions, his left hand releases the waist belt of the dive tank harness while his right slices through the left shoulder harness attached to the dive tank. Reversing the technique, Frankie transferers the knife to his left hand and repeats the process, slicing the right dive tank shoulder harness, while reaching with his right hand to release the weight belt buckle, letting it fall to the seabed. Completely unencumbered, Frankie rights himself.

Only when Josh thrusts his regulator towards him does Frankie finally let his own airless mouthpiece fall toward the ocean floor.

Taking a big suck from the offered lifeline, he guides it back to Josh’s mouth. Slowly and calmly, the pair swim toward the lights, face-to-face, taking turns breathing from the one regulator, as if that were the natural thing to do.

Reaching the surface, the crew helps the divers onboard and takes their gear. Still shaking from watching Frankie’s great 303

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escape, Luca looks at Josh, who is lying on deck, chest heaving and deep breathing sounds escaping from his diaphragm.

Remembering how calm he was during the ordeal; he can now see the stress leaving Josh’s body. What was it about guys like Frankie and Josh? Sure, the training taught them the mechanics of what to do, but it was just plain guts and discipline that allows them to overcome stress in such a situation.

Soon, Veloo and Saleem bring fresh air tanks for the team and another Fenzy, weight belt, and regulator for Frankie.

Laughing loudly, Frankie and Tim slowly walk toward the divers. Tim stops directly in front of Luca and eyes him up and down. “Hey, hooky hooky, you ready to finish the job with the men, or you want to stay onboard with the pussies?”

“Fuck no. I’m ready to go. You stay here with the pussies.”

After seeing Josh and Frankie in action, there was no way Luca would back out now.

Tim bellows out his deep laugh, “Haw, haw, haw! We got your ass now, don’t we, Pastaman?”

Ignoring Tim and Luca, Frankie again takes charge. “Looks like we have to adjust our plan,” he says. “Not enough time to recover and rig the cable—probably not strong enough anyway.

We’ll have to open the big crate underwater. I was told there should be some metal boxes inside. The lift bags will be able to handle them. If we hurry, we should have plenty of air to finish the job.”

After gearing up, the divers repeat their back flip water entry, but this time each hold onto a prying bar. Reaching the bottom, they gather around the stubborn crate as Frankie pries opens the top. On cue, Josh, Luca, Lou, and Sam work on the sides. First the top, then side after side fall onto the sandy bottom, revealing twelve metal boxes.

Josh and Lou attach a lift bag to the first box while Sam and Luca assist Frankie. The boxes are heavy but easy to manage underwater. One chest ascends, the bag returns, and another 304

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follows. After about half an hour, the salvage crew follow the last bag to the surface, stopping at the ten-foot level for a tenminute decompression hang off. Frankie and Josh are fearless, but they are also safe divers. Enough close calls; no need for a case of the bends to top off the evening.

By the time everyone is back onboard, the crew has removed the portable winch and is starting to stow the gear. On deck, Tim uses a large crowbar and pries the lid off the largest of the crates.

He then cuts into the waterproof fabric that encloses numerous cardboard cartons. Opening one of the cartons reveals hundreds of Citizen watches in all shapes and sizes sparkling under the deck lights.

“Shit,” Luca exclaims, just as the top of another package is opened, revealing even more watches, this time Seiko’s. “There must be ten thousand watches here.”

Tim looks at Luca. “These are the cheap ones. Wait until you see some of the others.”

The next two crates, about half the size of the largest, contain gold Rolex, Cartier, and Patek Phillipe watches.

Using his California cowboy strut, Tim slowly and deliberately moves toward the twelve metal boxes neatly piled, four by three, at the side of the deck. Each sheet-metal rectangle looks to be about two feet long, two feet wide and two feet in depth, and secured by a metal clasp with a small brass padlock.

Inserting the prying bar between the lock and the clasp, Tim twists his wrist in a quick, smooth motion and pops the brass ring from the bottom of the lock. “Takes me back to my teenage days in California stealing hubcaps,” he says as he lifts the top of the chest a sliver and peeks inside. With a slap of his right hand against his raised right knee, he lets out an, “Ooo Eeee, we found the right boxes, Frankie.”

Using his new nickname for Luca, Tim orders, “Come here, Pastaman. What do you think of this?”

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Moving toward the box, Luca is dazzled by the rays reflected from the boat’s lights as they bounce off the shiny metal ten-tola gold bars.

Lou, Sam, and Josh join him, and each gently pick up one of the smooth bars, feeling the weight, rubbing the cool bright metal on their cheeks, and sensually stroking the gold bar.

Luca, taking command, tells everyone, “Enough foreplay, guys. Let’s see how much there is.” As if he were a child playing with building blocks, he stacks the contents of the opened box on the deck and tallies a total of 416 ten-tola bars per metal container. Multiplying it by twelve boxes, Luca announces, “We have a total of 4,492 tola bars.”

“Gents, using the Indian tola measurement used in the Arabian Gulf, a tola bar is three and three-quarter ounces. We have 14,599 ounces of gold. At the current rate of thirty-five dollars per ounce, it’s worth over half a million dollars on the local market. Once smuggled into India, it would be worth more than two million dollars.”

With a shit-eating grin, Tim looks at the bedraggled divers.

“Why don’t you guys have a beer and get some rest while the crew and I pack up and strap things down so we can get underway?”

While the boat builds up speed, the team, with beers in hand, lie back on the cushioned bench seats and talk about the dive.

“Damn, Pastaman,” Josh teases, picking up on the moniker Tim conferred on Luca. “I wish I had a movie camera so you could see the look on your face. It was like you were doing an underwater sea ballet, flaying arms, twisting legs, and so on. It was just a little sea cucumber tickling you.”

“Screw you, Josh,” Luca mumbles and closes his eyes.

“Lay off him, Josh,” Lou jokingly orders. “Remember, he was a virgin who just lost his cherry. It will take him time to realize what a great experience he was just part of.”

Just starting to doze, a jolt from the thrust of the engines 306

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knocks Luca backward into the rear of the bench seat. Abruptly awakened, Luca opens his eyes, and sees Josh, Sam, Lou, and Frankie trying to keep their balance as they head toward the front of the craft. Watching as they hold on to the side of the boat, sidestepping toward the bow until finally reaching the cockpit.

As the boat gains speed, the bow bumps madly on the sea, lifting higher and higher.

Seeing everyone forward, Luca crawls on hands and knees to join them.

“Yaaa Hooo!” cries Tim, bucking up and down like a rider on a bull in a rodeo. Just then he pushes the throttles forward, accelerating to breakneck speed.

“What’s the hurry?” Frankie asks. “Got a couple of those Indian beauties waiting at home?”

“Fuck, no. We got an I-ranian customs gunboat on our ass.

See that little speck of light over there? That’s them. Word just came in over the radio from some nearby fishermen friends.”

“So what? We’re just picking up lost cargo, salvage rights, law of the sea, international waters, and all that,” Luca naively comments.

Luca’s shipmates look at him like he had just said the dumbest thing they’d ever heard.

“Shit, Pastaman, for being smart enough to run a school, you sure are thick when it comes to real life. This here ain’t no lost cargo, and we ain’t in Dubai waters. One of the dhows owned by friends of Shaikh Mohammed was sneaking it into I-ran. They were gonna be boarded and inspected, so they jetsam everything overboard.”

After Tim’s explanation, the rest of the team stands on the side laughing. “You sons of bitches knew all along, didn’t you?”

Luca blurts out at them.

“Fuck, Luca, no one had to tell us. Anyone wet under the collar could have figured it out.” Mimicking the voice of the 307

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broadcaster introducing the old radio show The Shadow, Frankie announces, “Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men?

The Pastaman knows!”

Josh and Sam stand there shaking their heads and smiling.

An abrupt “crack” sounds and then another comes from the side of the boat. Fiberglass splinters spray everyone’s faces.

“Motherfuckers!” Tim yells, “Them bastards are shootin’ at us. They ain’t supposed to do that—that ain’t playing by the rules. Let’s get our butts moving. Hold on,” he orders as he pulls a lever on the instrument panel and kicks in the supercharger, sending the boat flying.

As the boat pounds the waves, Josh laughs like a kid on a trampoline, bouncing up and down.

Suddenly Tim pulls down on the throttles. Just as rapidly as the boat had picked up speed, it drops to a smooth, brisk cruising pace.

“You’re not giving up, are you?” Luca yells. “If you are, I’m over the side, cause I’m not gonna spend my best years in some Persian jail.”

Lou straddles over to his second cousin and puts his hand on his shoulder. “Calm down. Haven’t I always looked out for you, since you’ve been here?” he asks in a paternal tone.

“We’re back in Dubai waters. We’re home free.”

Pulling his hand off Luca’s shoulder, Lou feels a sticky wet substance and watches as thick red blood runs slowly between his fingers. “Uh, Luca, you’re bleeding. Looks like the back of your shoulder was grazed by a bullet or you caught a splinter from the bullets that hit the boat. Let’s go inside the cabin, and I’ll get the first aid kit and patch you up.”

Tim then reduces the speed even more, sets the throttles on autopilot, and walks towards the ice chest on the stern.

Luca exits the cabin with his bandage of honor.

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Tim approaches Luca, “Come on, I’ll buy you a cold one.”

“Damn you, Tim. I thought I was gonna be the bumboy for some Iranian prison guard,” Luca furiously spews as he grabs the beer from Tim’s extended hand without a thanks.

“Luca, no one was hurt, you had a nice dive, and we had a little excitement. That’s why you came overseas—a change in routine and a little excitement,” Lou says with a smile, “And now you have a great story to tell your grandkids, and maybe a small scar to prove it was true.”

Dawn breaks on the Friday, holy day, and the sound of the muezzins calling the faithful to Fajr prayers can be heard above the sound of the vessel’s engines as it enters the Creek heading back to the MOMS dock. By the time they glide into the dock, Luca has passed his initiation and is one of the boys, exchanging jibes, laughing at the jokes, and recounting their experience.

Lou smiles as he watches the transition in his cousin, knowing Luca’s dad, Vito, would be proud of his son, and feeling confident that Luca could be counted on as an ally if ever needed. **** Monday morning May 29, 1967

As Lou scans the lunch crowd in the bar through the oneway glass, he sees Frankie enter the Ten Tola and head toward the stairs to his office. Before he can knock at the door, Lou opens it. “Mio cugino, how was the rest of your weekend?”

“Good, really good. Great dive trip, a couple of days relaxing with my girl and—now this,” he says as he walks over to Lou’s desk and lifts an obviously heavy briefcase onto it.

“One of Mohammed’s drivers delivered a few of these cases to my apartment this morning, with a note saying, ‘For the boys.

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Many thanks. Mohammed.’ It seems we’ve been rewarded with part of the booty.”

Opening the case, Lou is stunned to see it packed with the small ten tola gold bars and three Rolex watch boxes.

Before he can speak, Frankie chimes in, “Ten bars for each of us and one gold Rolex oyster watch each. These are for you, Sam, and Luca. I’ve already given Tim and Josh theirs.”

Holding one of the gold bars up to the light to catch the reflection, Lou smiles. “What a great way to get paid. I feel like an underwater treasure hunter. We’ll have to figure a way to display a couple of these behind the bar.”

“I have been told that Mohammed really appreciates our help,” Frankie says.

“He’s a good friend to have if we run into business problems.

He wants to go diving with us in the Musandam, so we’ll get together with him when he’s back in town.”

“Can I offer a drink or some lunch before you leave, Frankie?”

“Not today. I have a meeting with Nic back at the office.

Seems we have some problems with the boats working in Ras Al Khaimah with CGP. See you soon,” Frankie says and heads to the door.

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Chapter 23 Fossils or Fuel Monday May 29, 1967

Frankie’s reference to Canuck Gulf Petroleum triggers Lou’s memory of his meeting with Toufiq several weeks earlier and his comment about Shaikh Saqr’s concern about CGP’s progress.

“Get, Maccie La Rouche, the President of CGP, on the line please,” he asks his secretary.

Seeing the internal line blink, Lou picks up the phone.

“Mr. La Rouche is on line one, sir.”

“Maccie, Lou here. What the fuck is going on with you guys? The Ruler in Ras Al Khaimah is getting impatient. It’s been two years since you signed that concession agreement, and they can’t understand why you haven’t started drilling.”

“Whatdaya mean?” Maccie responds, trying to be as threatening as Lou. “We just received the offshore seismic report, and it looks good, and we’ve made payments of all the yearly fees. All our obligations under the first term of the concession agreement have been fulfilled.”

“No. We made payment, Maccie, not you. It was our money.

Almost all your costs have been covered by us. The boys back home wonder what’s happening with their money. And now I hear through the oilfield grapevine that your father signed a big concession in Abu Dhabi and is talking to the Iranians about their side of the Gulf waters. You didn’t even have the respect to 311

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ask if we wanted to be involved. Has your family forgotten who opened the door for you guys in the Gulf? This is bullshit!”

“Settle down, Lou. You know we’re good for paying you back.”

“You can’t pay back the credibility and my lost relationship with the Ruler of Ras Al Khaimah. It’s priceless. If I lose, you’ll lose. Send me that seismic report today,” Lou demands as he slams down the phone.

A few seconds later, Lou’s phone rings. “Don’t hang up.”

Maccie pleads. “There are some political issues brewing regarding our concession area that you need to know about. I don’t know all the details and history, but it has something to do with Iran’s historical claim on Bahrain and Abu Musa Island.

We’ve had some Iranian naval vessels harass some of our supply boats. You need to talk to Toufiq about it.”

Having calmed down, Lou replies in a mild voice, “I will.

Just send me the report and a copy of the seismic lines by the end of the day.” Gently breaking the connection, he then presses his assistant’s call button. “Shashi, can you see if Mr. Abdul Kazim is available to meet me tomorrow in Ras Al Khaimah?” **** Tuesday May 30, 1967

Arriving at Shaikh Saqr’s office, Lou takes a seat in the majlis among several other businessmen and local subjects of the Ruler. Chatting in his broken Arabic with the Arab next to him, he learns the man is a farmer in the Digdagga area and is petitioning the Ruler to help expand his farmland and buy modern farming equipment.

“A good investment for the future. I’m sure His Highness will give you a favorable response,” he tells the man, whose name he now knows is Ahmed.

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As Ahmed is called to the Ruler’s side, Lou watches the inaudible exchange. With a big smile, Ahmed stands and bids goodbye, shaking the hands of everyone seated around the room.

Reaching Lou, Ahmed takes his hand, and in Arabic tells him, “His Highness has agreed to my request. You are good luck, American,” and kisses Lou on both cheeks before departing.

Summoned to join the Ruler, Lou rises and takes the empty seat to his right. After the normal greetings and small talk, Lou hands a copy of the seismic report to Shaikh Saqr, who passes it to Toufiq on his left.

“Is the news good?” the Ruler asks Lou. “Yes, your Highness. It looks promising enough to commit funds to a drilling program to start before the end of the year.

However, the oil company has had some incidents with Iranian naval vessels, and we have heard rumors regarding Iran and Abu Musa Island that they would like to know more about before their board gives final approval for the expenditure.”

Shaikh Saqr looks toward Toufiq, who’s translation seems to take a lot more words than the two-sentence English question and gets a long reply from the Ruler.

Scooting forward in his chair to have a direct line of sight with Lou, the advisor translates Shaikh Saqr’s reply.

“For many years, Iran has claimed the island of Bahrain is a part of their territory. Even though the majority of its citizens are Shiites and speak Persian as well as Arabic, they are Arabs, loyal to the Al Khalifa Clan in Bahrain and are not Persian. This claim has been supported by their neighbors, including Saudi Arabia.

As the British prepare to withdraw from the Gulf as protectors of the Trucial States, their objective is to guide the states in forming a federation that includes Bahrain. However, before this happens, Iran plans to extend their historical claim, not only to Bahrain, but also to Abu Musa, which is under Sharjah’s control.

Iran also intends to unilaterally declare a nautical territorial limit that would include the Greater and Lesser Tunb islands, which 313

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belong to Ras Al Khaimah. Iran’s strategy is to strike a deal with the British, to give up its claim in Bahrain in exchange for Abu Musa Island. Unfortunately, the situation puts Ras Al Khaimah and Sharjah in a difficult position as mere pawns in the middle of these negotiations.

“As you know, the British have given their blessing and even signed our concession agreement as a witness. The sooner that you drill and make a discovery, the more of a legal claim Ras Al Khaimah will have on the concession area.”

Looking at the Ruler, Lou thanks His Highness for the explanation and assures him that Canuck Gulf Petroleum (CGP) will drill the well as soon as possible.

“Now I understand why His Highness was uneasy about CGP’s slow progress,” Lou comments to Toufiq. “Do you have any history books on the subject that I could read to better understand the situation?”

“Meet me in my offices after this meeting. I have several English books that will help you.”

Sensing that his audience is finished, Lou stands, gives his thanks to His Highness, and offers the Arabic Ma’salama.

Retreating from the Ruler’s presence, he walks around the majlis saying the required hello and goodbye to the guests waiting for their audience, then retreats from the building.

Walking to Toufiq’s office, he enters the reception, greets the secretary, Aisha, and makes himself comfortable on the sofa, waiting for her boss to arrive.

After thirty minutes, a harried Toufiq enters, “Sorry for the delay. His Highness asked me to stay a bit longer with him.”

“That’s fine. Aisha has been a wonderful hostess,” Lou says, pointing to the teacup and half-eaten plate of biscuits on the table next to him.

Entering the inner office, Toufiq sits at his desk while Lou takes a visitor’s chair in front. Turning his chair to face the bookshelves behind him, Toufiq selects three books for Lou. 314

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“These will give you different political interpretations of the history of Iran’s claim in Bahrain. I know what His Highness has said but, as you know, the political powers of today’s world leaders will make their decision on Iran’s declaration.

Personally, I don’t believe the British will support His Highness and have told him as much. I’ve already learned the Brits have already advised Sharjah that when Iran declares the extension of their territorial limits to twelve miles, Sharjah is to do so also.

This will lead to Abu Musa being in both Iran’s and Sharjah’s territorial waters, so the two will negotiate a deal to share the oil revenues.”

Listening to Toufiq while thumbing through one of the books, Lou looks up. “Pretty brazen of Sharjah. I thought they were the same tribal family as Ras Al Khaimah.”

“They are, but they split many years ago. Oil is thicker than blood, I guess. It gets even worse for Ras Al Khaimah. When Iran makes their announcement on their new territorial border, they intend to militarily take over the two Tunb islands that belong to Ras Al Khaimah.”

Shaking his head in disgust, Lou puts the book back on the desk and pauses, gathering his thoughts. “What if the new Federation is formed and includes Bahrain? Won’t that make a difference?”

“It could, but as my political sources tell me and His Highness just said, the decision will be made before the Federation is formed, after the British announce their withdrawal from the Gulf and the Trucial states in January of 1968. The British plan is to terminate the protectorate and withdraw their military presence in the Persian Gulf by the end of 1971, making the Trucial States independent Shaikhdoms. It will then guide them to form a Federation of Emirates.”

Lou quietly stands, walks over to a table containing a pitcher of water, and fills one of the glasses. “Water?” he asks Toufiq.

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“No, thank you.”

With glass in hand, he turns to Toufiq. “Maybe His Highness has a point about drilling as soon as possible. If we make a discovery, whatever happens, Ras Al Khaimah will have a financial claim for reparations.”

“It would need to happen before the end of this year. Can you move that quickly?”

“Choosing a drilling site, mobilizing a drilling rig, and then two to three months to drill, may be almost impossible, but we can try. Let me talk to CGP, and I’ll come back to you.” **** Back at the Ten Tola, Lou seeks out Sam and finds him in the kitchen. “Hey, buddy, can we talk in the office?”

Looking puzzled, Sam nods and follows Lou to the office.

Lou pours each of them a brandy from the crystal decanter on the sidebar, and they sit in the two wing chairs while Lou conveys the details of his meetings in Ras Al Khaimah.

“I need some advice and maybe some help, Sam. Trying to mobilize drilling a well in six months is going to be difficult and expensive, but it’s the only way I can protect Shaikh Saqr’s interest. If we’re successful, it gives him some bargaining power for at least a piece of the action from Iran and Sharjah once they extend their offshore boundaries. And it may be the best way to recover the family’s investment thus far.”

“How much has been fronted to CGP?” Sam asks.

“About five million dollars.”

“How much will the drilling program cost and what are the chances of success?”

“Under the original drilling schedule, the cost would be between fifteen and twenty million dollars, with a success probability of 50/50. A fast-track schedule will be much higher— and that’s if we can get a rig.”

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“Sounds like throwing good money after bad to me.”

“I know you’re right, but I just can’t let Saqr down. I really want to help him succeed.”

“Just like a casino man, you know the odds are against gamblers, but you’ve already made up your mind to gamble.

What about offering him a tradeoff. Tell him that you will do exploration onshore in the Musandam on the side that belongs to Ras Al Khaimah. He keeps all of the payments from the original concession and receives another signing bonus for the new one.”

“But we know there is oil offshore. The Musandam would be rank exploration. We’d have to basically start all over, just to ascertain if there are oil bearing structures under the mountains.

Expensive seismic and drilling unless there were some way to directionally drill from shore or with a shallow water drilling barge close to shore.”

“Maybe not rank exploration. I worked for several years with the military in the Hajar mountains and there were stories about oil seeps in the hills. I was even given a sample bottle of crude that supposedly came from one of the seeps. The locals claim they use it for external ointments and make torches for light, like coal tar pitch. Do you know what a seep is?”

“I believe that it’s when liquids or gas naturally escape from their underground structure through faults from below ground.”

“That’s right. Seeps happens naturally all around the world but mostly under the sea. If it’s a gas seep, they call it a gas chimney, a seepage of gas up through a fault from below the surface of the earth. In the ocean, gas comes up to the ocean floor and then bubbles to the surface of the water. Have you heard of the Zoroastrians, a religious sect that worships fire?”

“Yes, I’ve read about them. They call them Parsi’s in India and Iran.”

“Correct. At one time they were quite prevalent in what is now Iran, Iraq, and Azerbaijan. Just outside Baku in Azerbaijan, 317

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there were temples that had continually burning flames. Even high winds couldn’t blow them out. They later determined these were gas seeps, just like your chimneys.”

“I don’t know, Sam. Even if we can find where these seeps are, we’re just trading the politics of Iran with the communist rebel problem in the Musandam.”

“It would be a lot cheaper than spending twenty million.

And the Dhofar rebels will soon be driven out of the mountains, especially if oil is discovered there. I’ll bet our friends Mohammed and Abdulla could help find the seeps for us. They know the mountains and the people there. A little baksheesh, and the tribesmen will lead us right to the area.”

“Sam, we don’t have a lot of time. Let’s do this. I’ll talk to CGP and get them started on searching for a rig, getting the geologists to choose a drilling site, etc. You take a few days and head to the Musandam with Mohammed and Abdulla and see what you can find out. I can ask Tim Johnson to go with you. His knowledge of oil and gas will be helpful.”

As Sam stands and starts to leave, he turns and adds, “I’ll get Mohammed to get everything arranged and pull in a couple of favors from my comrades in the British Forces. If we can get them to provide a helicopter ride, we can leave Friday and be back by Saturday or Sunday.”

“Great, and thank you,” Lou replies as reaches for the phone and Sam leaves.

“Yes, sir,” his assistant Shashi says through the intercom.

“Will you call Maccie La Rouche to meet with me in my office tomorrow at one sharp?”

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**** Wednesday May 31, 1967

“Maccie, thank you for coming. Please have a seat. You’re aware there is an issue regarding the borders of our exploration license. In order to safeguard ourselves and the Ruler, we need to get that well drilled by the end of the year. Is it possible?”

“It may be, but it will be expensive. Offshore drilling rigs are in high demand in the Gulf, and we might have to buy a slot from another company. We need at least two, maybe three months to drill, depending on the water depth at the drilling site.

The geologists should be able to select the drilling site within the next month and we’ll need two months to find a jack-up rig and mobilize it to the drilling location.”

“When you say expensive, how much?”

“About twenty-five million.”

Hearing the inflated number, Lou looks up in silence. “Wow. That’s twenty-five percent higher than last projected.”

“It could be higher, depending on rig availability,” Maccie responds.

“Go ahead and start your search and get the geologists working. Before you make any financial obligations, check with me.”

“Lou, you know my father won’t commit to the cost until he gets a guarantee that you will front it.”

Lou’s face turns beet red and the veins on his neck bulge.

“You parasites! I don’t know what rock Majid found your ol’ man under. You would still be drilling twenty barrel a day wells in Alberta if we didn’t bring you out here. Because of us, CGP got the Abu Dhabi concession, a company maker for you.

Ungrateful bastards.”

“It’s not personal, Lou, just business. You agreed to front the 319

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costs. We’re just sticking to our agreement.”

“Sounds more like you’re just stickin’ it to us. Get the fuck outta here and find that rig,” he yells at Maccie as the oily oilman slithers out the door. **** Friday June 2, 1967

“Tim, glad you could join us,” Sam says as he assists Mohammed and Abdulla load their kit on to the helicopter at the Sharjah Defense Force base. “Mohammed had some discussions with the Shihuh that live in Ras AL Khaimah, so we have an approximate location and the names of a couple of tribesmen in the mountains to talk to.”

Tim throws his small bag in the hold. “Sounds like a plan.

Let’s go.”

“You three go ahead and do the preflight boarding routine with the copilot. I need to talk to the pilot regarding our drop site coordinates,” Sam says.

Sixty minutes after take-off, the chopper lands near a small village at an elevation of about two thousand feet to discharge the passengers. Once on terra firma, Sam tests his Cobra walkie talkie with the pilot’s frequency, and then waves them off.

Mohammed and Abdulla head toward the village to find Ali bin Shanfi, one of the contacts they have been given. As Tim and Sam catch up with them, they approach the largest structure just as an old man exits to meet them. Shrouded in his white robes and colored headdress, his long white beard and weathered face give him a unique mountain man or Jebali character.

“As-Salaamu Aleekum,” he greets the two Arab visitors who converse in a mixture of Arabic and Shihuh tribal language.

Turning toward Sam and Tim, Mohammed introduces them to 320

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Ali. After more discussion between the two, at times, almost shouting at each other, Mohammed and Ali both smile, and Ali walks off toward the end of the village.

“We’ve agreed on Ali’s fee for his guide service. He just needs to get his friend, who will also accompany us.”

As Ali walks toward them with his friend, both Mohammed and Abdulla excitedly sprint forward to greet him. Rubbing noses and speaking excitedly they bring Ali’s friend, Safiuddin, to meet Sam and Tim. “This is Safiuddin, the man who saved us when we were attacked on our last visit to the mountains with Mr. Lou.” “Of course,” Sam says, as he moves forward to greet him and introduce Tim. “I didn’t recognize him with his headdress on and almost clean dishdasha.”

With the negotiations and greetings complete, Ali leads the team toward the end of the village and down a path gradually descending away from the plateau. After several miles of walking, Ali guides them to an area almost hidden behind a maze of small cliff overhangs. Not visible from the path is a passageway of steps that had been cut into the rock. It was well worn, like it had been used for generations.

Before descending the circular stone footpath, Tim calls out, “Time for a water break, guys. It’s hot as hell and I need a rest.”

Sitting on partially shaded stone steps, Tim takes a drink and passes his canteen to the rest of the hikers. After a ten-minute break, the downward trek resumes.

Another thirty minutes later they reach the end of the stone trail and Ali leads them into a small cave. As they advance farther inside, the light dims, but a few feet more and the darkness is replaced by the flickering light of a fire burning at ground level.

Tim runs his hand across numerous fossils and imprints of some type of leaf or vegetation embedded in the walls of the cave.

Walking a few feet farther they come upon a small pool of oil that has been ignited, the source of the light. About ten feet beyond is 321

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a larger pool of oil with an occasional bubble burping up.

“It’s the fuckin’ oil seep!” exclaims Tim. “This pool of oil must have been here for millions of years,” adds an excited Sam. Tim looks at Sam. “I remember one of the geologists in the old days told me there were gas chimneys off the coast of the Musandam. Before we go any further, let me check to make sure there is sufficient ventilation. If there is gas being released in this closed space, it could be deadly.”

Seeing an old unlit torch, made of banded stalks of barasti on the ground, Tim lights it from the oil fire and carries it deeper into the cave. He returns to his fellow explorer. “We’re okay.”

“Why hasn’t anyone explored off the coast where they know there are gas seeps?” Sam asks Tim. “There’s not always oil where there’s gas,” Tim says.

“Besides, the oil companies don’t want to discover gas, because there’s no market here. Most of the gas they produce with oil production is burned. If you ever fly over this area or Saudi Arabia at night, you’ll see bright orange balls of light. Those are gas flares. Millions of dollars up in smoke because there’s no industry to use it.”

“What a shame, all of that energy lost,” laments Sam. Tim shrugs. “The oil companies don’t want to make the investment for the infrastructure needed to produce gas. It would take hundreds of millions to build a processing plant, pipelines, and all that shit. Someday, the countries in the Middle East will regret they let the oil companies waste that energy. The day will come when they regain control of their own natural resources, and the Western countries will suffer.”

Continuing their exploration, Sam and Tim determine they’ve reached the lowest level in the cavern. “We must be at sea level down here. The oil and gas seeps were never at the high elevations.”

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“Can you drill here, Tim?” “Not inside the cave, but with today’s technology, they can determine where these seeps may be migrating from and, if not far offshore, they could use directional drilling from an onshore or shallow water rig offshore, to hit the formation. Of course, it will take some exploration and seismic, but it will be a lot cheaper than drilling offshore in deep water.”

Sam removes a flash camera and a small empty bottle from his backpack. “Tim, fill this bottle with some of the crude while I take some photos.”

Once their task is done, Sam packs the camera and full bottle in his pack and removes some fruit, bread, and cheese. “Lunch time, gents.”

“Almost like sitting around a campfire,” Tim jests as they partake in their simple meal.

Mohammed stands and announces it is time for their noon Dhuhr prayers.

Sam cleans up their lunch debris. “Tim and I will start back to the top. You four stay and say your prayers.”

Climbing the stairs at a leisurely pace, forty minutes later the two foreigners reach the top of the stone route and re-enter the open walking path leading to the village and sit in the shade waiting for their team members.

No sooner have they reached the open sky than the walkie talkie buzzes. Sam removes it from his backpack and presses the receive button.

“Sam, this is Steve Robertson, your pilot this morning, OVER.” “Hi, Steve. Read you loud and clear, OVER.” “We’ve just received word from headquarters that all airspace over both sides of the Gulf is closed effective eighteen hundred hours. If you want a ride home, we need to collect you this afternoon, OVER.” 323

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“Do you know what’s going on? OVER.” “Not yet, but it must have something to do with the Egypt/ Israeli situation heating up, OVER.” “We’ve completed our task and can be ready to leave from the drop off point in two hours, if that works for you, OVER.” “It does. See you then. OVER.” “What’s that all about?” Tim asks.

“Not sure, but I don’t think it’s good. I just know we’re heading back this afternoon.”

As soon as Mohammed is sighted, Tim and Sam start down the trail for the four mile walk back to the village.

Reaching their starting point, Sam and Tim thank Ali and Saifuddin and find a shady tree to take a brief siesta while Mohammed and Abdulla settle payment to their guides.

Thirty minutes later, their ride arrives and the quartet of cave explorers board the helicopter for the flight back to Sharjah, stopping in Ras Al Khaimah to drop off Mohammed and Ali, saving them a drive home. **** Heading directly to the Ten Tola, a euphoric Sam triumphantly enters the office and places the bottle of crude in front of Lou. “Damn. A one-day trip. Obviously successful.”

Talking, almost without taking a breath, an excited Sam reports to his partner. “Lou, you can’t believe what we found under those mountains—and it’s been there for hundreds and maybe millions of years—pools of oil just leaking out of the ground. Wait until my photos are developed. You need to get that sample analyzed as soon as possible.”

“Slow down and chill. How about a mint tea?” Lou asks as he buzzes Shashi. “Two mint teas, please.”

Picking up the bottle, Lou holds it up to the light. “It looks like a very light-colored molasses, but it still flows. Should be 324

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easy to process. Now take me through the whole trip in detail.”

Pacing the room, Sam recounts the specifics of the discovery and the rushed return flight, after which he and Lou brainstorm on what to do next.

“Frankie told me this morning that Iranian naval ships are still hassling them in Ras Al Khaimah waters. As soon as we try to move a jack-up rig where we need to drill, we’re gonna have problems. The Brits are not going to be able to—or will not want to—help, and since CGP is a Canadian company, the Americans won’t intervene.”

“It’s gonna be hard to sit on this find very long,” Sam says.

“So far, Tim and I are the only ones outside of the Musandam that know about this sample.”

“I’ll speak to Tim,” Lou says. “He’s on our team.”

“Lou, I’m really concerned that something is brewing with the Arabs and Israel. I think that’s why the British Defense Forces have closed the airspace in the Trucial States.”

“Your military training and instinct are probably right. I’ve been listening to the BBC today, and there is a lot of chatter about Egypt, Jordan, and the Syrian alliance, and President Nassar’s anti-Israeli rhetoric.”

As Shashi brings in the tea, Sam finally sits down on the sofa. “This might be what we need to buy us some time. Let Maccie continue looking for a rig and make plans to drill.”

Lou nods in agreement. “That gives us time to have the sample tested before any discussions with Ras Al Khaimah and CGP.” Like a treasure hunter who just found a cache of gold coins, a hyped Sam fidgets in his seat, finally stands again, and resumes walking the room. “I’ll make some contacts with my Iranian intelligence friends who are here in Dubai and see if they have any news about the Shah’s plans to annex Abu Musa.”

“That would be helpful. We need all the info we can get.

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was the one who brought in Scotty La Rouche, I want to meet with him before we make a decision. He’s from Bahrain and has contacts with the Emir of Bahrain, Shaikh Issa bin Salman Al Khalifa.”

“What about Pat Riley?” Sam asks. “His Washington minders would keep him in the loop, especially if it might impact Continental operations.”

“I’ll see if he can join me for lunch tomorrow. We’ve somewhat become friends since the Jordanian escapade.” **** Saturday June 3, 1967

“Before we sit down—” Pat looks at Lou with a smile. “If you want to pick my brain about the pending Middle East war, I don’t know any more than you do.”

“Pat, how can you think so little of me? I just wanted to have a nice lunch with a friend.” Grabbing Pat’s hand like an Arab companion, he leads him to his reserved corner booth. Once they’ve seated and ordered drinks, Lou says, “However, since you mentioned it, what do you hear through your Washington channels and from Wolfgang?”

Mimicking the Japanese cultural symbol of the three monkeys, Mizaru, who sees no evil, Kikazaru, who hears no evil, and Iwazaru, who speaks no evil, Pat puts his hands over both eyes, then both ears, and finally over his mouth.

“Ahh, a man of proverbs. I prefer Sun Tzu, ‘knowledge is power.’” Lifting his glass, Lou proposes a toast. “Cheers to a peaceful future in the Gulf.”

As their glasses touch, Pat says, “The next few days will tell.”

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Khaimah. We’re actually more worried about Iran than Israel.

Rumors are that the Shah is ready to move on his claim on Bahrain, and that means Abu Musa also.”

“Probably a good time for him to do it when the rest of the world’s eyes are on the Arabs and Israel,” Pat says.

“Come on, Pat,” Lou says, watching his companion carefully.

“The Brits won’t allow Iran to take over Bahrain.”

Pat takes another swig of his scotch. “You’ve been here long enough to know this area of the Middle East is the biggest bazaar in the world. You dicker, argue, gain, cajole, threaten—and then you make a deal. The Iranians will deal.”

“So, our concession is in danger of being canceled.”

“I didn’t say that. Remember your Chinese General, ‘Appear strong when you are weak.’ Just do as you are, continue as usual, show no fear, and force the issue. The Brits and Americans will make the decision, not the Shah. Push them to play their hand.”

“That could be an expensive strategy.”

“Initially, but it could leave you open to compensation from the British Government if they force the cancellation of a concession they approved.”

“Compensation could take years.”

“Yes, but it’s better than nothing.”

“You’re right, thank you for the insight.”

“I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve already ordered for us a mix of our new Mexican specials. The nachos are great.”

“Did you get a Mexican chef?”

“Almost. We found an Indian from Goa who cooked for a drug lord in Mexico. He left when his boss was blown away by rivals. The new boss wanted him to stay and work for him, but he decided it was time to leave. Best that he got out of there.

Drugs are a messy business. Before I agreed to take on my role here, I required that all the people involved in our business ventures take an oath not to get involved in anything that wasn’t considered by the Ruler to be legitimate business here.”

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“You never cease to amaze me, Lou. Since we first met over a year ago and have worked together, my attitude about you and your intentions in the Gulf have changed considerably.”

“Well, thank you, I think. Was that a good compliment or a backhanded one?” Lou stares intently at Pat. “You look uncomfortable. A man in your type of work shouldn’t sweat so much.”

Wiping his brow with the napkin, a squirming Pat replies, “Yes, it’s a compliment. I was just being careful in how I chose my words. I’ve been asked to keep an eye on you and your businesses for friends in Washington.”

Lou enjoys seeing Pat fidget and adds another jab, “Oh so you’re spying on me.”

“No, no, nothing covert, just watching.”

“Pat, remember our agreement, no Mossad, no CIA, no Mafia.”

“Lou, I do what I do, not just for my country but because after years of study and immersion in the Middle East, I have a deep affinity for the people, especially the Gulf Arabs, and I fear the West not only misunderstands them, but has taken a political line of abusing their business and political naivety. When Europeans were in the Dark Ages, the Arabs were leaders in science, medicine, world exploration, and even world conquest.

If I can help change my country’s attitude just a little, then I feel I have fulfilled my obligation to myself and my profession.”

“I admire that, Pat. I feel much the same way.”

“I believe we are similar in many ways. You’re one of the few Western businessmen to make the effort to learn even fundamental Arabic. Your improving language skills show that you are concerned enough about the rulers and people here to make the effort to really know about their culture, religion, and history.”

“One of the biggest lessons I learned from Uncle Fabio and my father is to try to think as the people around you think, and, 328

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on that basis, anything is possible. To do that, I need to know their language, culture, and religion. Yet, even if I master all of that, I will never be able to think like them, just as they will never learn to think like me. However, what we both have in common is the ethics of business.”

“Having followed your business relationships and dealings since day one,” Pat says, “everything I have seen tells me you do operate with those ethics inside the accepted cultural and moral guidelines for here. I know you’re not a drug pusher or arms salesman, just a savvy businessman and a good fella. I really respect you for that.”

Lou, feigning as being insulted, stares intently at Pat and roughly pushes back the table from his booth seat, upsetting glasses and dishes, stands, and looks down at his lunch mate.

Looking up at Lou, Pat’s anxiety morphs to a state of alarm, kicking in the epinephrine designed to aid self-preservation.

With a loud howling laugh that brings tears to his eyes and the attention of the other bar patrons, Lou cries out, “A good fella! I don’t know if I should shoot you or hug you. Not many people have the balls to compare me, a Harvard MBA, to an arms salesman and drug pusher. Now, I take that as a compliment.”

Sliding from the curved banquettes seat, Pat stands facing Lou and holds out his hand in a gesture of peace and friendship.

Grabbing Pat’s right hand, Lou holds it in a strong grip while pulling him close and gives him a family hug and kiss to the cheers and applause of the customers.

The waiter cleans the spilled drinks, pushes the table back in place, and serves the Mexican mezza as the duo sit down and eat in silence. As Pat swallows his last bite of burrito he breaks the quiet. “You’re right, great Mexican food.” He places his napkin next to his empty plate. “Sorry, but I have to get back to the office. The next couple of days are going to be busy.”

“Why don’t you and Ann join me and my friend Felicity for dinner here next week?”

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“We’d love that, Lou. Ann is really fond of Mexican food.”

“Great. I’ll call, and we can set it up.” Lou walks Pat to the door, then turns and heads to his office. **** “Did you catch any of that conversation, Sam? Fuck. I’m a ‘good fella,’ according to my new blue-blooded WASP friend.

He basically is a good guy and means well, but needs to learn how to talk to people who have a vowel at the end of their name.”

“He’s okay and can really be a help to us. Keep that relationship solid. Sounds like shit is ready to break loose.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Didn’t you catch his last remark? ‘The next couple of days are going to be busy.’ He said it twice. He knows something.”

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Chapter 24 The Six Day War Monday June 5, 1967

Sam and Lou listen intently as the BBC World Service broadcaster’s voice comes through the radio that sits in the middle of their conference table.

“The world is watching closely at the developments in the Middle East as the Israeli Air Force carries out a preemptive strike against Egypt, Syria, and Jordan,” reports the newsreader.

“The escalation has been building since Syria and Israel fought a ferocious air and artillery engagement in April, in which six Syrian fighter jets were destroyed in a dogfight above the Golan Heights with no loss of Israeli aircraft. Based on inaccurate intelligence that Israel was moving troops to its northern border with Syria in preparation for a full-scale invasion, Egyptian President Gamal Abdel Nasser moved to support his Syrian allies and ordered his forces to advance into the Sinai Peninsula, where they expelled a United Nations peacekeeping force that had been guarding the border with Israel for over a decade.”

Lou shakes his head. “Shit, I can’t believe this is really happening. Christ, this must be what Pat meant when he said he had a big day today.”

“It was inevitable,” Sam replies, “especially after Nasser banned Israeli shipping from the Straits of Tiran and signed a defense pact with King Hussein of Jordan.”

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They continue listening as the commentator narrates details of the surprise Israeli air strike by two hundred aircraft against eighteen different airfields that eliminated roughly ninety percent of the Egyptian Air Force as it sat on the ground.

“Nothing about the Jordanian Air Force?” Lou asks.

“It’s not over yet. This will go on for a few more days. Israel has established air superiority, but they still have to win the ground war.”

Just then the newscaster’s voice reports, “In a coordinated attack with tanks, infantry, and air strikes, the Israelis have stormed across the border and into the Sinai Peninsula and the Gaza Strip. We will update our listeners as more details emerge.”

Lou grabs the radio and turns the knob, silencing the reporter.

“I’ve got a meeting of the school board. I thought they’d cancel it, but Pat Riley left me a message saying it’s still on. I’ll see you back here about six.”

“See if those board members and Pat have any information from their home office that we’re not getting,” Sam suggests.

“Will do.” **** Lou enters the portacabin that serves as a temporary library for the new Jumairah American School. The discordant chatter among the school board members already in the room is hard to follow, but they’re obviously talking about the war.

Seeing that Lou has arrived, Pat asks the members to be seated. “Earl isn’t able to attend and asked me to chair the meeting on his behalf. Before we start our normal agenda, I think it would be appropriate for each of us to share any information we may have from our home offices, such as evacuation plans for employees and staff, et cetera.”

The first to raise his hand is Butch Malone. “Gents, we can be grateful that school isn’t in session yet. Having said that, our company does have concerns for our expatriate families who are 332

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in the country now, and we’re looking to Continental and the Dubai government for some guidance. After all, we’re here to serve both.”

“What I can say right now is we have no plans to evacuate at this time. Our position is to see how this plays out for the next few days. We do have contingency plans in place and are in contact with the State Department in Washington,” Pat says.

“Our office in Houston is keeping us informed,” adds Leonard Jamieson, manager of Schlumberger. “I suggest we set up a line of communications between all of us to disseminate information we receive and elect someone to be the coordinator.”

“Here, here,” all the members respond in support.

“I guess since Continental is the concession holder, that means me,” Pat says. “Once I get back to the office, I’ll set up a hotline for us and start sending out updates by telex or phone.

Each of you will need to assign someone as your lead man or warden so we have a proper chain of communications.”

“Thank you, Pat. Since I don’t have a large staff at the Ten Tola, I can assist you.”

“Okay, Lou and I will be co-coordinators. Does anyone have any news to share before we start the board meeting?”

“No news,” Luca Luchetti, the new school headmaster, says.

“Just that I was in Jordan a few weeks ago, and except for a few uniformed soldiers on the street, it didn’t appear they were preparing for a war.”

“Glad you’re not there now, Luca,” Jim Christopher, Manager of Citi Bank, says. “Just before I came here, my New York office let me know that about two hours ago, the Israelis attacked Syrian and Jordanian airfields. Early reports are that the Syrians lost fifty-seven planes destroyed on the ground, while Jordan lost all of its twenty-eight aircraft.”

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attack and know exactly where all their aircraft were parked?

The Israeli intelligence may be good, but they had to have some help.”

“It’s a cold war out there, and the Russians have been helping the Egyptians, so why not the US help Israel?” Jim responds.

Lou and Pat catch each other’s eye and quickly look away.

“Okay, let’s get on with the school board meeting,” Pat says.

“Luca, can you lead us through the agenda?”

Two hours later, the board, eager to complete their school affairs and get back to their war business, approves the last item, the hiring of staff recommended by the headmaster and agreeing to amend the employment policy to allow Rita Hashemi a housing allowance once her husband joins her.

“Do we have a motion to adjourn the meeting?” Pat declares.

Lou raises his hand. “I’ll make the motion.”

“All in favor?” the acting chairman asks. Seeing the unanimous show of hands, all eager to leave, Pat declares the meeting adjourned.

The exit is swift, leaving Pat and Lou alone in the library.

“Do you have time to come by the Ten Tola for a drink?”

Lou asks Pat. Pat looks at his watch. “Give me an hour or so to swing by the office first to see if Earl has any news and make a couple of phone calls.”

“See you later, then.” **** Back at the Ten Tola, Lou heads to the office, where he finds Sam still intently listening to the BBC. “Did you hear the news that the Israeli’s wiped out the Jordanian and Syrian Air Forces?” he asks Lou. “Well, hello to you, too. You’re really caught up with this thing,” Lou replies.

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Sam reaches over to turn the volume knob down and looks up from the radio. “Well, I did spend years serving Her Majesty, and I was recently involved in espionage activity with my business partner against other Arab countries, something that our host country might consider against their political interests.”

“I understand. Once a warrior, always a warrior, my friend.

It’s in your blood, just like me and my family.”

“Anything new from the school board meeting?”

“Pretty much what you’ve been hearing.” Standing by the one-way glass, Lou watches as patrons flow in after work. “Pat’s coming by for a drink later. You might want to listen in from up here.”

“Will do. By the way, your cousin Frankie called and said the dive trip scheduled for next week has been delayed until the following week. He said Mohammed has some pressing security problems he needs to deal with.”

“Yeah. Like a war!”

“I told Frankie it’s probably for the best, as the Gulf waters will be crawling with UK and US ships and, even in the fortyfoot Bertram’s airconditioned cabin, this heat could still be miserable out there.”

Still looking down at the patrons, Lou’s smile is reflected in the glass. “Hmm. Why should we suffer in the heat on a small forty-foot Bertram when Nic has a hundred-and-twentyfoot yacht moored on the Creek that he said is for corporate entertainment and was paid for by the company. I’ll pull rank and tell Frankie to book the company yacht, the Puss and Hoots, for us for that weekend.”

“Great idea. Now that’s my kind of dive trip.”

“Flick is coming by for dinner about eight-thirty. Do you and one of your lady friends want to join us?”

“Not tonight. Already got plans with Flick’s roommate, Tia, since the apartment will be empty,” Sam says with a sheepish grin.

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“Put your tie on the bedroom door in case Flick and I come back early. She can’t stay at my place tonight. Her boss wants her close to the office with all that’s happening. I’m going downstairs to check out what our guests are talking about and meet Pat Riley for a drink. I’ll check in with you after he leaves.”

In the Ten Tola, Lou does what he does best, schmoozing with his customers, a few jokes, checking on their families, but mostly listening to what they have to say about the war situation.

It’s not long before Pat arrives. Excusing himself from the gang at the bar, Lou walks over to Pat and guides him to a back isolated table. Once seated, he anxiously asks, “Any feedback on the incident in Amman?”

Scrunching his face in a frown, Pat asks, “How about a drink first?”

“Of course, excuse my manners. Black Label on ice, right?”

Seeing Pat’s nod, Lou yells to Omar, “Two Black Label on ice,” and then turns back to Pat. “Sorry about that. I forget that you have other people to deal with besides Earl.”

Both men are silent as Omar serves the two whiskies. Picking up his glass, Pat takes a stiff gulp.

Watching Pat take a second gulp, Lou smiles. “I can see you must be under a lot of pressure from all of your bosses. Omar, can you bring my guest another round?”

Without verbally replying, Pat frowns, and then offers a small grin. “To answer your question about feedback, I did receive word from Wolfgang, thanking us for our help, and that it proved to be very beneficial.”

“Anything else?”

“Actually, yes. Wolfgang tells me their people in Jordan sent in a report of an agent of the Jordanian General Intelligence Directorate being attacked and stabbed by a foreign Arab several weeks ago in Amman.”

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“Stabbed? It was a little three-inch paring knife, no more than pin pricks. When I told you the details of my man intervening, I explained what he had to do so he could get away with the box.”

“Don’t get me wrong, Lou, our friends are not upset; they just felt letting a witness live wasn’t the best way to leave the situation. What’s done is done.”

“My man is a friend doing me a favor, not an assassin, and there were two Jordanians involved. I think he handled it the best he could, under the circumstances. Two dead Jordanian operatives would have left a lot of questions. And, if the GID got their hands on the information that was being passed, their military would have made sure it was useless.”

“You’re probably right. On a lighter note, Wolfgang said that if you and your Arab friend ever want a job, they’re hiring.”

With a joint laugh, both men pick up their drinks and toast their successful operation.

“What’s the inside news on the war front?” Lou asks. “You and Continental must have some scuttlebutt?”

“Much of what I can’t share will come out in the press in due time. What I can say is that this will be a quick war. The Israelis were outnumbered by the combined Arab armies and surrounded by enemies on three sides and the Mediterranean on the fourth, so they resolved to strike first and win quickly.”

“Aren’t the USA and Britain prepared to help them?”

“Only as a last resort. Public attitude in the US is against going to war in the Middle East to defend Israel. Washington wouldn’t even intervene to break Nasser’s blockade of the Gulf of Aqaba. However, they did quietly support an Israeli first strike.

When it’s over, Nassar will blame the USA and UK anyway, saying they participated in the initial, decisive air assault.”

“So, accurate intelligence from some unknown people made the difference in Israel’s air success.”

“Cheers again,” Pat offers as he lifts his newly filled glass.

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Downing the remains of the scotch, Pat abruptly stands and announces he has to leave. After walking him to the exit, Lou returns to talk with some of the patrons, and he buys a round before retreating to the office.

“Interesting conversation,” Sam says as Lou enters.

“Amazing intelligence services these Israelis have.”

“Amazing people do amazing things, Lou, when the existence of your country and family are in jeopardy.”

“I’m heading home to get ready for my date with Flick.

Remember the tie on the doorknob,” Lou reminds Sam with a smirk. **** By the fourth day of the war, with the Arab Air Forces out of the way, Israel rolls into the Sinai, Jerusalem, and the West Bank, and takes them over completely. On the sixth day of the war, the Golan Heights is under Israel’s control, and news of their strategy is slowly released to the public.

On June 10, 1967, a United Nations-brokered ceasefire takes effect, and the Six-Day War comes to an abrupt end.

The Arab states are left shocked by the severity of their defeat. In Israel, the national mood is ecstatic. In less than a week, the young nation has captured the Sinai Peninsula and the Gaza Strip from Egypt, the West Bank and East Jerusalem from Jordan, and the Golan Heights from Syria.

Obsessed with the news of the war, Sam spends most of the last five days sitting at the conference table listening to the radio while trying to complete the stock inventory.

“Hey, Lou, did you hear the statement by King Hussein of Jordan? He said the Israeli pilots knew exactly what to expect.

He believes that Israel had complete knowledge of all thirtytwo Arab air bases—what objectives to strike, where, when, and how.”

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Leaning back in his desk chair, feet on the desk, Lou pulls down the day-old Herald Tribune below his face. “Now how in the hell could they have known that?” he states in a comic tone.

“The air operation was called Operation Moked, or Focus.

Military strategists say the preemptive strike aimed at destroying the Arab Air Forces on the ground is one of the most brilliant aerial operations in history. I’m sure they will be teaching it as a case study at my alma mater Sandhurst and other military academies around the world.”

“What do you think, Sam? Did the US participate in Moked as Nassar claims?”

“Not directly, but there has been reports of non-uniformed Americans advising the Israeli military. One reporter claims she met a retired Jewish/American US Air Force pilot from the Bronx who volunteered to fly for Israel. He said there were a lot of former military from the USA fighting for Israel. There are also reports that Israeli intelligence actually intercepted a conversation between Nasser and King Hussein of Jordan on the second day of the war. Now, they might have needed some USA help for that.

“There is a lot of sympathy for Israel, and not just from American Jews. I’m sure Meyer and his friends had a hand in getting arms and other supplies to Israel. Someday, I’ll ask him about it, but he’s pretty humble about what he does for other people and doesn’t like to talk about his private life.”

“I’d love to hear that story if he ever tells it.”

“Ha, ha, listen to this.” Lou reads aloud from his newspaper.

“An Israeli intelligence agent impersonated an Egyptian officer and instructed a lost battalion in the Sanai away from the Israeli lines. After the ceasefire was declared, the fake officer guided the Egyptian unit towards a POW camp, where the Egyptian tanks and soldiers were taken under Israeli control.”

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“Really embarrassing for Egypt. As a military man, Sam, what do you think? This is the third Arab/Israeli war. Will it be the last?”

“I wish I could say yes, but I doubt it. Maybe someday the financial benefits for the two will outweigh their religious and historical animosity and they will work together. But that will take more than fifty years, and more wars, before it ever gets to that point.”

The buzz of the phone intercom breaks the discussion. “Mr. Falconi, a call for you from a Mrs. Falconi.”

Immediately, Lou simultaneously presses the blinking line and speaker buttons and hears his crying mother on the other end. “Luigi, Luigi, we’ve been trying to get through to you for more than a week. Did you get hurt from the bombing and missiles? You need to come home now.”

“Mamma, settle down, I’m fine,” he consoles while smiling across at Sam. “We’re hundreds of miles from the war.”

“But a stray missile of one of those jets could have flown over and crashed on you.”

“Really, Mamma, I’m good. Let me talk to Pops.”

“Paolo, he’s okay, nothing hit his house. Venga qui, he wants to talk to you.”

“Hi, Poppa, please tell Mamma I’m fine and I don’t need to come home. I live in a different part of the Middle East than where the war was.”

“I know, I know, but she’s your mamma; she worries about her boy. Will you be coming for a visit soon? That would make her so happy.”

“I’ll try to come for the Fourth of July holiday. I need to see Zio Fabio and Meyer, so that will be a good time.”

“Your Uncle Fabio is right here. He wants to say hello.”

“Lou, sounds like things have been interesting. The phones have been difficult to get through to you during the war. Is everything okay with you and your cousins and business?”

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“All good. Please tell Zio Vincenzo that Frankie is fine and tell Cousin Vito that Luca and his family are well. I plan to come back next month to report to the partners. Maybe you and Meyer can set up another meeting for everyone. Probably best to do it somewhere other than NOLA.” “I understand. Send me your schedule, and we’ll get everything in place.”

“We need to see Scotty La Rouche also.”

“Done. Here, let me put your mamma back on before she rips the phone from my hand.”

Raising his eyes at Sam, Lou presses the speaker button off and holds the handset against his chest. “You really don’t want to hear this, Sam,” he says, smiling.

“There’s some activity downstairs I need to check on. Talk to you later.” Sam laughs as he exits.

“Okay, Mamma, I’m here.”

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Chapter 25 Revelations Monday June 12, 1967

“Shashi, will you call Pat Riley’s secretary and leave a message that Lou Falconi invites him and his wife, Ann, to join him for dinner at the Ten Tola on Tuesday at eight?”

“Anything else?”

“Nothing. Just tell Sam when he comes in that I’ll be out most of the day meeting Nic and Frankie at MOMS.” **** Sitting in the prefab office building in the MOMS fab yard on the Creek, Frankie explains to Lou that the situation with the Iranian navy craft hassling the company’s work and supply vessels has continued during the Arab/Israeli conflict. “Even with British and US navy ships in the Gulf, the Iranians cut across our boat’s bow or anchor in areas that we need to navigate,” Frankie reports.

“Well,” responds Nic, “our boats are Singaporean flagged, so they have no responsibility to assist us.”

“But half of our crew are Americans.”

“Still, no obligation. They work on a foreign vessel. If our boat is attacked, they will assist with rescue, but that’s it. I wish CGP would see the writing on the wall and just claim force majeure.”

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“That might help CGP,” Lou says, “but it doesn’t help the Ruler of Ras Al Khaimah or the family to recover the large investment I’ve made in CGP and the concession. It just gives the Iranian’s time to pull off their deal in Bahrain with the Brits.”

“It’s not just the Brits that want to keep Bahrain autonomous.

The US Navy has based their Middle East Force there since 1948 to provide logistical and communications support to Marine Expeditionary vessels. Once the Brits pull out, the base is to become a full US Naval Forces Central Command base.”

“How do you know all of this shit, Frankie?”

“Friends in high places,” he retorts with a sheepish smile.

“Oh, your royal family buddy, Mohammed.”

Again, Frankie’s grin and silence tells all.

“Shit, if CGP wants to salvage the work they’ve already done on the field, they should be talking to the Iranians,” Nic says in a belligerent tone.

“Again, that doesn’t help Ras Al Khaimah, or us. Remember, we’ve been paying the bills.”

Holding up his middle finger, Nic retorts, “Screw Ras Al Khaimah. We’ll make more money shifting the concession to Iran. It would open the door for CGP to get other exploration or production opportunities in country.”

Controlling his temper, Lou chooses not to reply to the comment. “I’ve scheduled a trip back to NOLA the first week in July. I want Frankie to join me. His family is worried and needs to see him. Nic, you’ll have to run the show while we’re gone.

And, Frankie, call your mamma today.”

“Did Frankie tell you that we’re taking the Puss and Hoots to the Musandam on the twenty-first?”

“The fuck you are.” Nic scowls. “I have plans to take some clients diving in the Red Sea that weekend, and then it goes to the Mediterranean for some engine work.”

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“Reschedule them. This is a priority PR situation. Frankie, please make sure we’re good to go with a crew to handle six or seven divers,” Lou orders, showing Nic who the real boss is.

“I’ll take care of it,” Frankie answers.

Ignoring Nic’s deadly stare, Lou continues, “Regarding Iran, CGP has been ordered to get a drilling rig and support ready to move in place by September first. Until then, just do the best you can and try not to upset the Iranians too much.” **** Tuesday June 13, 1967

“Pat, Ann, so glad you could make it,” Lou greets his guests at the entrance to the Ten Tola. “Forgive me for the short notice.

Things have been a bit hectic for all of us lately, and everyone’s schedules seem to be easily overtaken by unplanned events. I thought we better get together while we have a free night.”

“We understand,” Pat replies. “I’ve been on the phone with Ponca City since they opened at eight this morning. They don’t seem to understand that Dubai is nine hours ahead and it’s five in the afternoon for us when they start their day. After almost two hours, I told them I had a dinner appointment and I’d call them at their home tomorrow morning when I get to the office at eight my time. Let’s see how they like having a two-hour call at their dinner time. Thursday and Friday are the worst. They have no concept that our weekend is half a day on Thursday and all-day Friday.”

“That’s international corporate life, Pat. You know what you signed up for,” Lou says. “Jim Christopher, Manager of Citi Bank’s new branch office, and his wife were to join us, but he unexpectedly had to fly to London this evening for a morning meeting. Another schedule upended by business. Come, let me take you to our table.”

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“The place is packed for a Tuesday night. You’d think it was a weekend,” Pat says.

“Lots of offshore crews are on essential staffing only, so those not working hang here. War may be hell, but it’s been damn good for business.”

Sam leads his guests to a cozy back corner VIP booth occupied by an attractive lady who watches the trio walk toward her.

“Pat and Ann, you remember my friend, Felicity Maris.”

“We actually met at the grand opening,” Flick replies.

Smiling, Ann says, “Yes, of course I remember Felicity.”

An eager waiter stands by while the new arrivals are seated and then requests drink orders.

“Folks,” Lou interrupts, “I hope I didn’t overstep, but I preordered what I call our Mexican Mezza, a combination of our new cook’s ‘south of the border’ specialties.”

“Sounds wonderful. When Pat said we were coming here for a Mexican dinner, I was so excited. We were in Libya before moving to Dubai, and they had a great Mexican restaurant, really Tex-Mex, but very good.”

“I hope we can live up to your expectations.”

“You’ll love it, Ann,” Flick says. “It’s so good. Not too many Mexican restaurants in London, so eating here was my first experience with tacos, burritos, and the regrettable refried black beans. Lou has set a high standard.”

“What are ‘regrettable refried black beans?” Ann asks.

With a giggle, Flick replies, “The next day you regret you ate the beans.”

“You can give Sam the credit for finding the chef. He was introduced to Lazar, the cook, by the Catholic priest, Father Eusebius.”

“Are you telling me that the priest is a patron here?” an astonished Ann asks.

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“You know Shaikh Rashid’s philosophy—all religions are welcome and tolerated, unlike some parts of the Middle East,” Pat reminds his wife.

“Father Eusebius is a bit of an unofficial job recruiter,” Lou says. “He helps members of his church who are out of work find jobs. Two of our best kitchen staff came through him. One day he showed up with a tray of what you’ll be eating tonight and a young mixed-blooded Portuguese and Indian man from Goa named Lazar. Father asked to see me or Sam. I was out, so Sam invited him to sit and ordered a glass of wine for the two of them. With explanations of each dish by Lazar, Sam and the priest worked their way through the array of food and several glasses of wine. Sam hired Lazar on the spot, and eventually that evening sent Father Eusebius home in a cab.”

“What a wonderful story. Pat’s been telling me there is more to you and this place than meets the eye.”

Glimpsing toward Pat, Lou catches a subtle wink. “Our dinner will be ready soon. Another drink for anyone? Or are we happy with my choice of wine.”

Receiving a consensus on the wine, Lou instructs the waiter to pour for everyone and excuses himself while he goes to the kitchen to check on dinner. Soon after, a man with a white chef’s coat and hat exits through the swinging kitchen doors behind Lou with a tray big enough to hold a whole lamb—which was what the tray was made for.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is Lazar and his Mexican Mezza.” Setting the feast on the table, Lazar describes each dish and then wishes them an enjoyable dinner.

The two couples hit it off and the evening goes splendidly until the two ladies excuse themselves and head for the powder room.

With the ladies gone, Pat shares some of the Israeli tactics during the Six Day War, all of which had been reported in the news media.

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“You’re still not telling me the real story,” Lou chides Pat. “Jesus, Lou, when you get a top-secret security clearance, we can talk candidly about international policy. We may be friends, but I still have an oath to uphold.”

Lifting his wine glass, Lou takes a sip, “Just giving you a rough time, my friend. I really understand.”

“Thank you. Do you remember our conversation here a couple of days before the war when you mentioned your position on business that is out of bounds for your people?”

With a loud laugh, Lou shoots back, “Oh, the time you called me a good fella because I wasn’t a drug pusher or arms salesman? How could I forget?”

Pat nods towards the two ladies returning to the table.

“There’s something I want to talk to you about as a friend, but not with the ladies present. How about a walk on the beach tomorrow morning at six?”

“I hope you two had a miserable time without our company,” Ann teases as she approaches the table interrupting the two men’s discussion.

Unable to verbally respond to Pat, Lou looks at him and nods his head in acknowledgement, and then replies to Ann, “It was terrible. We were so lonely and depressed that we almost invited those two ladies at the bar to join us.”

Playfully, Flick smacks Lou on the shoulder as she slides into the booth seat next to him. “It’s a damn good thing you didn’t, or you two would be talking in very high soprano voices.”

“Ah, like the castrati singers in the old Italian operas. When we were kids, Uncle Fabio used to threaten all the Falconi boys that if we didn’t behave, he was gonna make castrati out of all of us. The first time he said it we weren’t scared and just thought it was some type of Sicilian soup. But after we went to the library and looked it up, the next time he said it, we were scared shitless and settled down quickly.”

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Laughing to the point of crying, Flick responds, “Sweet Jesus, no wonder you’re so confused as an adult.”

“Whadaya mean?” Lou shoots back. “I’m very much in touch with my feminine side.”

As the banter aimed at Lou flows back and forth between the two couples, the dinner guests continue to laugh and jibe until they drain the last bottle of wine and agree to call it quits.

“Can we drop you off at your apartment, Felicity?” Ann asks.

Lou squeezes his lady’s hand and quickly responds, “That won’t be necessary. I’ll take her home.”

“Thanks for a great evening. I’m gonna need an early walk on the beach to clear the cobwebs in the morning,” Pat says to remind Lou of their seafront meeting.

After the double-cheek kisses, Pat and Ann depart.

With an eager smile, Felicity looks at Lou. “My place or yours?”

“Mine.” **** Wednesday June 14, 1967

Lou slowly slides out from between the sheets, hoping not to disturb his bedmate. He grabs his swim trunks from the closet shelf, pulls them on, and walks out the sliding doors into the already humid morning. Seeing Pat on the beach in front of his villa, Lou heads toward him.

“Morning, asshole. Who the hell sets up a discussion on a beach at six after a night of wine and frolic? Is that what they train you to do at Camp Peary, or should I call it ‘The Farm’?”

“Sorry. I didn’t know last night would be such a great time. I may have to travel, so I needed to see you as soon as possible.”

“Sounds important.”

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“I think it is. Before I start, let me assure you this hasn’t come through official channels, it’s secondary information. Don’t ask from where; I can’t answer that. Agreed?”

“I don’t have much of a choice. Agreed. Spit it out.”

Pat hesitates. “Are you familiar with the Bureau of Drug Abuse Control and the Federal Bureau of Narcotics, the FBN?” “Of course, I know of them. What’s that got to do with our conversation?”

“Since we talked about your new cook’s background, your comments about your attitude toward drugs, and the fact that we seem to have become friends, I felt I needed to tell you that you have some dirty dealings going on inside your organization that will not only hurt you and your family, but also the people here you want to help.”

Lou abruptly stops walking and stares at his friend.

“The FBN has information that heroin and hashish are transiting through the Trucial States from Iran and the Far East headed for Europe and the USA.” “Definitely not from us,” Lou says defensively.

Pat gazes at Lou with a sympathetic look. “The trail leads to MOMS workboats and dhows owned by some powerful local businessmen, including Majid. The FNB even believe arms for the Communist rebels in the Musandam may be coming into Ras Al Khaimah the same way. You need to find out who’s behind this and clean it up before they bring you down with them.”

Lou’s bulging carotid artery and distended facial blood vessels betray his usual impassive expression, exposing his anger. “Shit! You can really fuck up a day before it even starts.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you. If there is anything I can do within my professional bounds, let me know.”

Quickly recovering from the initial shock of Pat’s revelation, Lou replies, “Thanks, Pat. I appreciate the tip from a friend.

Do you have any idea how much time I have before the FBN become involved?”

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“They won’t. Unless it becomes a real problem at home, they’ll just pass on the information to the Brits. With everything going on in the Middle East and the British government’s plans to withdraw in a couple of years, this is probably low priority.

But if it filters down to the British Resident Officer, Archie Stuart, he will tell the Rulers, and it will be bad for you and your business.”

As both men stand facing each other, Lou grabs Pat in a bear hug. “I owe you one. It may take some time, but I will get to the bottom of this. I’ll need some good intelligence and may even have to call in my chit from Wolfgang.”

“When you’re ready, tell me what you need from him, and I’ll pass it on.”

“Thanks again, my friend.”

As Pat turns to walk home, Lou runs into the tepid gulf water and keeps swimming away from shore until exhaustion overtakes him. He rolls on his back to float and recover, all the while thinking, thinking, thinking.

Back at his villa, he walks into his master bathroom and finds Flick in bra and panties getting ready for work. Wet and sandy from his swim and still reeling from Pat’s disclosure, he just gives her a light peck on the check, drops his bathing suit, and walks into the shower.

As he exits, Flick confronts her nude lover and hands him a towel. “I had a wonderful evening and a really great night.”

Looking at his troubled face, she asks, “Is everything okay?”

Still damp, Lou moves toward her, wraps his towel around the back of her partially clothed body and pulls her tightly against his aroused nakedness. “Sorry, just a lot on my mind, but you’ve made me forget whatever it was.”

Feeling his manliness against her, Flick smiles. “I’m sure glad that Uncle Fabio didn’t make you a castrato.”

Reaching up between her legs with his right hand, Lou pulls down her panties. Dropping the towel, he turns her face toward 350

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the mirror, bending over the vanity, and slowly and gently slides into her. As they unhurriedly adjust their rhythm to a coordinated motion, they reach their critical ratio point and their bodies, seemingly defying all laws of physics and physiology, simultaneous erupt in one maximum thrust.

“Jesus, Lou, if you ever feel you need to forget what’s bothering you, please let me know, and I’ll come running.”

“Forget what? Wow, whatever just happened in here made me forget everything. It must be that disease, penile amnesia.”

“Okay, I’ll bite. What is penile amnesia?”

“It’s a malady all men get when they reach puberty. Once that little sucker between their legs starts to stand up, they forget everything, married or not, girlfriend or single, kids? For some men it’s short term, for others they can disappear from home for weeks, and when they get back, they can’t remember where they’ve been.”

“You are so full of shit. Remember, it’s women who infect a man with that disease. We dominate!”

“Come take another shower with me.” **** After dropping Felicity at McDermott’s office, Lou’s thoughts revert to his early morning exchange with Pat, and his blood pressure begins to rise again. Arriving at the Ten Tola, he leaves his car at the entrance of the Bustan Hotel and sprints into the bar and up the stairs, furiously throwing open the office door.

Working at the conference table, a startled Sam looks up at his partner. “Whoa, buddy, what’s the problem?”

“I just had an early morning discussion with Pat Riley.”

Conveying the details of last night’s dinner to every aspect of this morning’s information from Pat, a frustrated Lou throws up his hands in frustration.

“Bloody fuck! Just what we don’t need. The winds of war are still bellowing across the Middle East; the Iranians are trying to 351

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take our oil concession, and now this shit.” After venting, Sam’s military training kicks in, and he sits quietly to calm his nerves.

After several minutes, he pulls rank. “We need to triage this. The drug situation will be the most devastating to us and the Rulers.

This will take some investigating and covert operations. We do this while we follow up on the drilling situation with CGP. We have no control over whether the war is really over or not, and we can only wait for that to play out.”

“It’s not just the Rulers,” Lou interrupts. “If this shit is coming in on our boats with our people, all of the families who are partners in these businesses could be liable for prosecution.

We need to find out if this is a low-level renegade play, or if it reaches higher. Either way, our actions have to be severe and brutal. We need to set an example. If it’s any of our people, I’m gonna personally cut their balls off.”

“We need to find out who and how first,” Sam interjects.

“Our first priority is to put a team together. Do you want to bring in some of your people from the States?”

“No, we need to localize this. I want to handle this here before Uncle Fabio and Meyer hear rumors. We have a few expat friends and family we can trust—Josh, Luca, Tim, and especially Frankie who has Shaikh Mohammed’s ear. I’ll talk to each of them tomorrow to make sure they all fit as a team and understand what we’re asking them to get involved in. Once I’m sure we’re all comfortable, we can meet together. If we need real muscle, I can ask Albert Abuzian in Beirut to send a dozen enforcers or soldiers to help.” Lou paces. “Sam, can you talk to our friends in Ras Al Khaimah, Mohammed and Abdulla out about any arms going through RAK. Also, can you talk to your British and other intelligence friends to see what they know?”

“Will do. What about Toufiq, Shaikh Saqr’s man?”

“I’m not sure I can trust him yet. The same with Majid and Iskar.”

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**** Thursday June 15, 1967

Omar approaches Lou’s regular table in the back corner booth of the Ten Tola and excitedly interrupts the discussion between the three cousins. “Excuse me, gentlemen. Sorry to bother you, boss, but Sam’s out and we have a few of the boys getting a bit rowdier than usual. I already broke up two small brawls.”

“Thanks for letting me know, Omar. We could hear the ruckus back here. It seems that work schedules are back to normal, and a lot of these guys have been shut up on rigs or work boats for the last two weeks or more without a break. They need to let off some steam. Frankie and I will come to the bar and help calm them down with a few free rounds and some jokes.”

“Thanks, boss.”

“Omar, in the future, make sure you have some backup before you break up a fight. You’re a good barkeep, and I can’t have you in the hospital for a week. And watch out for the waitresses.

If anyone is disrespectful to them, let me know immediately. We can’t tolerate that shit.”

“Gotcha,” he says with an appreciative smile.

“Maybe it’s time to hire a bouncer,” Frankie suggests.

“You’re probably right. Sam and I have been gone a lot lately. Maybe an assistant manager with some brain and brawn to help Sam. You and I will be in the States for a few weeks, and Sam is due for some holiday soon, so it may be the right time to find someone and get them trained. I’ll talk to Sam when he gets back. In the meantime, let’s mix.”

“What about me?” asks Cousin Luca. “I know some great jokes.”

Hesitating, Lou looks at Frankie, who nods. “Just what I need,” Lou growls. “Talk around town that the school headmaster was drinking and fighting in the Ten Tola.”

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“You know I’m not a big drinker. One beer can last all day.

And I can handle myself.”

“Come on, cousins, let’s mingle. A lot of these guys are crew on your boats, Frankie, and a few have kids at school, so socializing with their VP and the boss of the school will improve their behavior.”

After an hour of free drinks, talking, and joking with the horde—and just one incident in which Frankie physically ejects an overzealous patron—the three unscathed cousins are able to return to their table and resume discussions.

“So where were we?” Lou asks.

“You filled us in on the information Pat gave you, and we were discussing how to approach Shaikh Mohammed about the problem next week when we’re on our dive trip. Oh, and we agreed that Josh Sampson would be a trustworthy addition to our team,” Luca paraphrases from memory as if reading from notes.

“Frankie, are you comfortable about us talking to Shaikh Mohammed about this?”

“I don’t think we have a choice. We can’t go to his father, and we don’t trust Majid and Iskar yet. The worst-case scenario is that he feels he has to talk to his father. Knowing how he feels about some of the people around the Ruler, I don’t think he will do that.”

“What’s our hook or line to open the discussion?” Lou asks.

“I think I may have an opening,” Frankie offers. “When we were up front, in one of the booths I saw a crewman from our work boat passing a small amount of something that to me looked like hash to the man across from him. When I worked on the boats, we would pick it up in ports in Bombay and Karachi.

It’s not unusual for crews to smoke weed and hash in off hours, but we try to discourage use on the vessels and have fired a few guys. Since these folks haven’t been in any ports for a few weeks, they must be getting it locally. Let me see if I can find out 354

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who they bought it from. I’ll act like I want to buy some. They should be happy to do a favor for the boss.”

“Not a good idea. That shit is illegal and getting caught buying or selling is prison and deportation,” Lou warns. “Let’s go up to the office and listen to the tapes of their table.”

Luca follows Frankie and Lou up the stairs to the landing.

Before opening the door, Lou stops as if he forgot something. He turns to Luca and addressees him in his best Capo tone. “What you will see here is known by only a very few people. People I trust and who are loyal. I want you to swear an oath that you will never tell anyone about this.”

Luca hesitates. “Maybe I should wait downstairs.”

“No, if you’re in, you’re all the way in. If you leave, you’re out forever.”

“Lou, we’re cousins. I’m in. And I swear I will never reveal what you show me.”

Lou turns toward the door, enters the code and secondary key, and holds open the door.

Entering the office, Luca looks around trying to see what’s so special when Lou walks over and slides the bookcase apart, revealing another door. Pressing the keypad, he pushes open the heavy steel door, revealing the control room. Luca looks at the studio-like facility, mouth gaping.

Lou tells the technician to take a break, glides the bookcase façade back in place, and closes the soundproof door. As the three cousins sit at the controller’s desk, Lou pulls up the tape from table number six and reverses the video until Frankie tells him to stop. “This is when I saw them pass the hash. Back up a bit more.” Turning up the volume they listen to the conversation between the two seamen.

“Fuck man, I can get all this shit you want. Every couple of weeks we meet up with a dhow offshore and transfer cargo to our workboat. We never deliver cargo to 355

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the rigs or other vessels, so a couple of the crew became curious. One day, we accidentally on purpose dropped a crate on the deck and it breaks open. It’s full of blocks of this black pasty shit, hashish. Several of us confront the Filipino captain and tell him we’ll turn him in unless we can take a block from each shipment to sell on the side, and that we’ll give him a cut. The captain is scared shitless and agrees. Now during every transfer, we report to the captain that one of crates broke and one or two packages are lost overboard. We’ve been hiding ‘em in our quarters until we have a buyer. Are you interested?”

“Depends how much it costs and how much you have.”

“This isn’t that twenty dollars an ounce shit they grow and sell in California to hippies. This is Afghanistan Kief, the dried resin, the most potent and concentrated form of cannabis with very high levels of THC. It’s smoked in pipes, vaporized and inhaled, or mixed with marijuana in joints. Just a little will blow your mind.”

“Give me a price and a sample.”

“We have six blocks. Each block is ten pounds, a total of sixty pounds. That’s over 27 thousand grams.

This stuff is so potent that it can be cut with other THC resin, yielding five times as much product that can be cut into smaller cakes and repackaged. That’s a street yield of three hundred pounds with a value in the USA of about two hundred grand. We need fifty grand, US cash.

Here, take this and have your people check it out. I need to get back to work.”

Lou hits the stop button, and the three-man audience momentarily stares at the black screen.

“Son of a bitch! This is not a low-level operation!” Frankie exclaims. “The captain has someone above them calling the 356

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shots. All the captains answer to me. There is only one other person besides me with the clout to pull this together—fuckin’ Nic!” “Let’s not jump to conclusions, Frankie. Check out everything you can. Look through the financials and see if there is any income or debits being run through that are not legit.”

Frankie, visibly upset, shakes his head. “I know that seaman, Larry Dubois. He’s from Louisiana and worked for Nic when he was a VP at McDermott. Don’t tell me it’s not that bastard Nic.” “Can you search the Barbara Ann without the crew knowing?” Luca asks.

“I’ll think of some reason to put the boat in drydock for immediate repairs and reassign the crew. If I head back to the office now, I can do it while the crew are on shore for the weekend and assign security not to let anyone on board.”

“What about the captain? Don’t they usually oversee repairs of their vessel?”

“I’ll temporarily relocate him to another vessel.”

Lou stands. “Come on. I’m getting claustrophobic in here,” he says and enters his office. He walks to the office bar and pours three scotches, and hands one to each of his cousins. “Won’t Nic be suspicious of your doing all of this without telling him?”

“Fate is on our side. After you commandeered the yacht from Nic for our dive trip next week, he rescheduled his entertainment weekend and sailed for the Musandam this morning. Back on Friday night. I’m in charge while he’s gone, but we have to move quickly. I need to get to MOMS and get the boat drydocked before all the staff leave today.”

“When can we search the boat?” Luca asks.

“Late tonight.”

Walking toward the exit, Frankie turns toward Lou. “I’ll be back here to pick you up about one a.m. We’re going hash hunting.”

“I’ll be ready too,” Luca says.

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“Sorry, Luca, you need to be home with your family,” Lou says. “If we need an alibi, you’re it—we’re playing poker at your place.” **** Arriving at the entrance of MOMS maintenance yard, Frankie stops at the gate for the security guard check.

“Working late, Mr. Falconi? Sorry, but I need to see your ID card.”

“Good man, Sebastian.” Pulling out his employee ID, he comments, “Always check.”

Lifting the bar of the gate barrier, the security man waves Frankie through.

Frankie backs into his private parking spot, then exits the vehicle, walks to the back of the car, and opens the trunk. “Grab that tool bag when you get out,” Frankie orders.

“Damn, it’s hot as hell in there,” Lou complains.

“Couldn’t have your name on the security guest list at two a.m. Nic checks them every day.”

“Good thing the security guard knows you.”

“Remind me to fire that shit. He’s supposed to check all incoming and outgoing vehicles, and that means opening the car trunk.”

“Be nice. Just give him a warning,” Lou says. “He did check your ID, even though he knew you.”

“Come on. We got work to do.” Frankie heads to the dry dock area. “The Barbara Ann has already been lifted, and I have a guard making an inspection every thirty minutes.”

“Shit. That’s not much time to search the entire boat!”

“We stay until we find something. Just need to keep out of sight every thirty minutes when the guard comes around. He doesn’t go inside the boat, but we have to cut flashlights and be quiet while he walks around the craft.”

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Staying behind some crates, the twosome anxiously wait until they see the guard leave his security shed and start his short walk around the boat. “It’s two-thirty. Synchronize watches.

Next check is at three and takes ten minutes. Let’s go,” Frankie says.

They climb the steel ladder placed along the lifted stern and clamber onto the deck. “Since the captain is involved, let’s look through the wheelhouse first, and then we can start on the sleeping berths and engine area,” Frankie suggests.

Opening cabinets, drawers, and pulling up seat cushions, they look inside everything they think could be possible sites to stow goods. “Three a.m., security, keep down below the windows,” Frankie announces. Hearing the guard pass, Frankie looks up to confirm he is gone.

“If I were hiding six blocks of hash, I would do it in six separate places. Much easier to hide, and if one is discovered, you still have five left,” Lou says.

“Good assumption, cuz. Let’s go through the four cabins and captain’s quarters. We just need to find one block.”

Quietly exiting the bridge, they slither down the metal stairs to the sleeping quarters. “I’ll take the two on the left, you take the right.”

Nodding his agreement, Lou grabs the handle on his first cabin. “Fuck, it’s locked.”

“Here, you search this one. It’s unlocked. I’ll go down and get the keys from the security shed when the guard leaves on his next round.”

Doing as instructed, Lou begins examining the small room— under bunks, in drawers and closets, and checking for hollow walls. He finds nothing. After making sure to replace everything the way he found it, he closes the cabin door and moves to the next one. Finding that door also unlocked, he repeats his rummaging but comes up empty handed again. Pushing the button on the bezel of his Rolex Submariner dive watch, the face lights and he 359

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sees it’s almost security check time. Lying on the bunk, he waits for the guard to pass and Frankie to return. Ten minutes later, the steel door to the middeck opens and Frankie appears, jingling a cluster of keys on a big ring.

Mimicking a little kid playing hide and seek, Frankie softly calls out, “Come out, come out, wherever you are!”

Rising from his brief rest, Lou joins his partner in crime just as he finds the right key and unlocks the room. Coming up empty handed, the frustrated hash hunters start to leave the cabin.

Pulling the door closed to relock it, Frankie gives the room one last scan and spots an air vent along the floor of the far side of the berth. “Wait a minute,” he says, and pulls a screwdriver from the tool bag. Kneeling in front of the vent, he loosens the four corner screws and removes them. He pulls the steel grate up from the floor, shines his flashlight inside the duct, and sees a wooden shelf that has been installed with a package of something on it.

Reaching in, he removes the parcel.

“We have found the treasure.” Sitting on the floor, he and Lou look at the oil tarp wrapping stamped with some type of writing similar to Arabic script. Looking closely, Lou announces, “This isn’t Arabic, it’s Farsi. See the letters in each word—they connect to each other when they are typed or printed like this is.

This is coming from Iran.”

Frankie replaces the grate and screws. “One is all we need.

Let’s get our asses out of here.”

Timing their exit with the guards’ schedule, they head back to the car.

“Into the trunk, my man,” Frankie directs Lou. “It’s too damn hot. And what if the guard remembers his training and asks you to open the trunk? We’re busted.”

“All right, you pussy. Lie on the backseat floor, and I’ll throw these coveralls over you.”

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When they reach the security gate, the guard exits, and greets Frankie again. “Sorry to ask, sir, but can you open the boot for me?”

As requested, Frankie pushes the trunk button and the lid pops open. Lifting it up, the guard takes a quick look and slams it shut. Walking to the weighted end of the bar gate, he pushes it down, lifting the bar to allow Frankie to exit. “Thank you, sir,” the guard says in a professional tone.

“Now you can’t fire him,” comes a muffled voice from the rear.

As soon as they reach the paved road, Lou pops up from his hiding place. “Damn, when was the last time you washed these coveralls? They smell like crap.” Climbing across the seat and into the front, Lou takes the shotgun position.

“Go to my villa, not the office. I don’t want this stuff near my place of business. You can crash there for the rest of the night, and we’ll figure out our next move once we get some sleep.”

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Chapter 26 The Musandam Alliance Wednesday June 21, 1967

The Puss and Hoots was a luxurious way to get away from the pressures of the 24/7 work schedules most of the expats follow in Dubai. The 120-foot yacht had an eight-man crew plus the best nautical chef in the Middle East. There were sleeping quarters for ten people, a salon with two Chesterfields, lounge chairs, card tables, a dining room that would formally seat ten, and a lifeboat for twenty people. Communications were via shipto-shore radio transmission, allowing phone calls and even telex communications. Two on-board dinghies were used to shuttle divers and sightseers from the anchored yacht locations to diving and fishing locations. Every toy imaginable was on board, from towing tube rings to parachutes tethered to a dinghy and pulled for lift. Of course, there were also fishing spears and poles and most important dive gear and tanks, as well as a compressor to fill them after each dive. Best of all, the eight-man crew carried the gear, helped the divers suit up, refilled the tanks, and then cleaned the equipment after the dives.

Frankie’s plan is for a two-night trip casting off from Dubai on Wednesday evening and waking up the next morning at Khasab in the Musandam, coordinating the first dive with the specular sunrise over the mountains, a view not many divers have witnessed.

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After diving and fishing all day Thursday and Friday, they were to depart for Dubai after dinner on Friday and arrive back early Saturday morning. If his guests’ time was limited to a oneday trip, he would just cruise for a couple of hours and anchor off one of the many islands that dot the Coast of the Emirates and spend one night, returning to port the next day.

The yacht was moored at the customs wharf in Dubai Creek, an easy location for everyone to meet.

By six p.m., with all the equipment stowed and cabins assigned, Lou and Frankie, along with their vetted and loyal friends, lounged on the outside stern deck drinking sundowners.

“What time’s dinner?” asks an always hungry Josh.

“Not until we get underway, and that depends on what time Mohammed and his guest join us. I suspect they won’t arrive until after ten, so it will be a late dinner,” Frankie replies. “I’ll get the galley to prepare some appetizers about eight. Until then, it’s chips and peanuts.”

“Fellas, can I make a suggestion, or actually set a rule for the trip?” Lou says to his band of merry men. “We all know the dive schedule and strategy of business tomorrow. Mohammed doesn’t drink, and even though he doesn’t mind others having a beer or glass of wine, this is primarily a dive trip, and secondarily a sensitive stratagem to talk to Shaikh Mohammed about the problems we’ve uncovered. I suggest we limit our alcoholic intake, not only for dive safety, but also to make sure no one says anything we may regret. Remember the old WWII saying, ‘Loose lips sink ships.’ Frankie and I will do the talking, but you guys need to listen carefully so we’re all on the same wavelength.”

“Roger that,” responds Sam and Josh almost simultaneously.

For the next few hours, the team reviews what they know about the drug smuggling and how they intend to present it to Mohammed.

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Lou continues, “Mohammed’s reaction will be an indicator of what type of action plan, if any, will be needed. If he indicates he has to inform his father, then there will be no role for us, and I’ll just have to deal with the fallout with His Highness and my family.”

“When do you plan to bring this to his attention?” Frankie asks.

“I think we just play it by ear and see when the most opportune situation arises. It may be best that it’s just Frankie and me bringing up the subject. I’d like to wait until we’ve had some fun diving and everyone is relaxed—maybe Friday evening before we head back to Dubai.”

About 10:30 p.m., headlights appear on the dockside and a Land Rover stops at the yacht. Two men wearing dishdasha and ghutra exit and walk toward the gangplank.

Frankie and Lou head for the ship’s walkway and stand to greet the guests. First to board is Mohammed.

“Ahlan wa sahlan,” greets Lou. “Welcome aboard!” Offering his hand to Mohammed, he pulls him up the last few feet up the steep incline.

At the bottom of the gangplank, the second guest, a young man about the same age as Mohammed, struggles with two expensive looking leather valises. Immediately, Lou walks down to assist and takes one of the bags.

“Shukron,” says the man with a warm grin.

“Mafi mushkila,” replies Lou, “Not a problem at all.”

Reaching the deck, Frankie and Mohammed are deep in conversation. Handing off the two bags to one of the room boys, Lou introduces himself to the guest. “Ahlan, ismi, Lou Falconi.”

“Ismi, Dhahi Sadek Taweel.”

“Fursah saeeda, Dhahi,” Lou says to express his pleasure at the meeting.

“Fursah saeeda, Lou. I’m pleased to meet you also,” a smiling Dhahi retorts in passable English.

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“Ha, ha, I practice my Arabic while you speak to me in English.”

“Your Arabic is very good, my friend,” Dhahi compliments as he grabs Lou’s hand.

“Not as good as your English,” says a jovial Lou. Frankie joins in. “Mohammed, let me introduce you to my cousin Lou.” “Yes, I know of you and your businesses,” Mohammed comments as he holds out his hand. “We’re very grateful to have you here.”

“Thank you, Your Highness.”

“Please, this is a friendly dive trip. Call me Mohammed.”

“Of course, Mohammed. The first time we met was over two years ago on my first visit to meet your father. I was in his private office with Mr. bin Jabir when you came in. You had just returned on holiday from an English program in London.”

“Yes, I remember that. Of course, at that time I didn’t know how much you and your family would contribute to our country’s business success. I was also with my father when you brought him that beautiful white falcon. And you were at the poker game a few weeks ago.”

“Wow, good memory,” Lou says.

“Frankie, can you take Mohammed to the rear deck and introduce him to our dive buddies? I’ll take Dhahi and show him where his and Mohammed’s cabins are.”

“Sure, cuz.” Taking his friend’s hand, Frankie leads him to the stern where the three friends stand. “Hey, fellas. This is our dive buddy, Mohmmed. You met him at our poker game last month, but let me run through your names again. This is my cousin Luca Luchetti, headmaster of the American School. This is Josh Sampson, who works with us at MOMS, and this is Lou’s partner, Sam Sweeney.”

“Of course, the poker game. It was a brief meeting, but I do remember. Who won all the money that night?”

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“Oh, no money, that’s haram. We just play for matchsticks,” Josh says, smiling, while the others laugh.

“Josh doesn’t want you to know, but he’s so lucky he always wins. When he leaves Dubai, he’ll have so many matchsticks he won’t know what to do with them.” Luca grins.

“I hope you all do. We want everyone who works for our country to go home rich—or stay here with us to help build our country.”

Lou and Dhahi follow the laughter and join the other guests.

Lou takes a minute to introduce Dhahi to everyone.

“Dhahi is a very close friend to my father and me,” Mohammed says.

“Well, now he’s our friend too,” Lou retorts.

“Thank you all, it’s my pleasure, gentlemen,” Dhahi adds.

“It’s a bit warm out here. Let’s go into the salon. Dinner will be ready soon. **** “Gentlemen, it’s been a great dinner, but if we’re really diving with the sunrise, I need to get some sleep,” Mohammed states.

“Agree,” Frankie says. “There is nothing like sleeping on a boat traveling in calm water. Fellas, one of the crew will knock on your door about five. In the water at five-thirty.”

“Mohammed and Dhahi, please feel free to use the salon for Fajr prayers in the morning,” Lou offers. “Tisbah ‘ala khayr, Good night, Sadiqi, my friends.” **** Swaying gently with the movements of the sea, Lou looks out the porthole at the starlit night, thinking about tomorrow’s diving and his good fortune to have Cousin Frankie spreading friendship with the local families and Cousin Luca’s popularity with the school parents and company leaders, as well a great 366

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partner like Sam and personal friends like Josh.

Remembering his displeasure with Nic’s decision to bring the Puss and Hoots to Dubai, Lou is now thankful he did. What a way to dive and to get a chance to meet the locals, like Mohammed.

Just before dozing off, Lou does something he hadn’t done since his Catholic grade school days. He prays, thanking God for his family and friends, and falls into a deep sleep.

Lou is already awake when he hears the tap on the door.

Exiting his berth, he goes on deck and looks across at the little village of Khasab. Just as Frankie planned, the yacht is anchored off the coast and the crew are getting ready for the first dive of the day.

Sam, Frankie, and Luca, eager to get the most out of their diving excursion, are up at the first light and eating a light breakfast at the outside table on the stern while watching the beginning of the sunrise over the mountains. Exiting the double doors from the salon to the deck, Dhahi and Mohammed, having finished prayers, join them for breakfast.

While everyone is eating, the professional diver in Frankie kicks in, and he asks his guests for their attention. “We’re just off the coast of Khasab in Omani territorial waters. The tides are very strong here, so we need to watch the currents. This dive will be a drift dive.” Pointing toward the opening of a large inlet carved into the mountains, he continues, “The dinghies will take us a mile towards the end of that fiord. We’ll disembark and drift with the outgoing current back toward the inlet entrance and reboard our boats. If you get disorientated, come to the surface and look for the dinghies that will be circling to help guide us back. If you can’t see one of the boats, just inflate your buoyancy device and float on the surface. The boat will spot you and will come pick you up. Any questions?”

“How deep?” Luca asks.

“The depth finder is recording one-hundred-twenty feet at the deepest, but there is a big shelf at eighty feet. Any other 367

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questions? Okay, here are the teams. Mohammed will be my partner. Luca, you’re a certified diving instructor, so I want you with Dhahi. This is his first dive in these fiords, so you two stay close. Sam, you tag along with Luca and Dhahi. Lou, you and Josh are together. You noticed I split up the green beret and the SAS commando. We don’t need you two guys playing war games. You can dive together this afternoon or tomorrow when we go to Telegraph Island. One more thing. Each team has a powerful spear gun. Please be careful with the sharp spear tips and watch where you’re shooting. We need a couple of big groupers and lots of lobsters, squid, and red snapper for lunch and dinner. Luca, what’s next on our prep list?”

Taking over the briefing, Luca exhibits his teaching skills.

“Don’t forget to do a buddy check before you get in the water.

Remember your PADI training, BWRAF. B is your buoyancy device, W is your weights, R is your releases, A is air and F is for the final check. And remember our dive tables. We all should be good for sixty minutes at sixty feet, but constantly monitor your air gauge. These waters are crystal clear and abundant with sea life, and unless you want to go deep for the big fish, you can see everything at sixty feet.

“The dive platform at the back of the yacht is low, so you have easy access to the tender boats alongside. Frankie, Mohammed, Josh, and Lou in the first boat. Sam, Dhahi, and me in the second.”

“Gentlemen, before you descend, take a look at the magnificent sunrise over the mountains,” Frankie encourages.

“Not many people have a view like that. Let’s get wet!”

The wet salty spray and view of the sun creeping up behind the mountains makes the ten-minute ride up the inlet almost a Zen moment for the divers. Reaching their drop off point, the boat pilots cut their engines, allowing the divers to backflip into the water. Floating on the surface, they do one last safety check, synchronize watches, and then head down with their partners.

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As Luca, Dhahi, and Sam descend, the thermocline layers become cooler, and, at sixty feet, they reach an optimum diving temperature. The three divers are immediately mesmerized by the vast array of sea life and excitedly use hand signals to call to each other to see what each has discovered. Picking up his diving slate, Luca writes, “LIKE A BIG AQUARIUM,” and holds it up to his buddies, who nod in agreement.

While Josh and Lou engage in snagging lobsters for lunch, Frankie and Mohammed go deep for the bigger fish, especially the white meat grouper, or hammour, as they are called in the Gulf. Reaching the rocky shelf at eighty feet, Frankie looks in caves and behind large rocks, trying to flush out the elusive fish, while Mohammed stands ready with the speargun.

The trio catch up with Mohammed and Frankie. Looking down through the crystal blue water, they see Frankie hanging onto a large rocky outcrop as a variety of fish and other sea animals swim past him. Mohammed, fins whipping to keep his position, is ready with the speargun. Soon a gigantic Hammour swims close to Frankie. Like a National Geographic special, they watch Frankie slowly backing away from the prey so Mohammed can take a shot, but the inquisitive fish follows Frankie. Once there is a bit of distance between Frankie and the fish, Mohammed lets go with his high-power spear gun—a perfect shot and quick kill.

The two fishermen reach for the limp fish, tie a rope through his mouth and gills, and remove the spear.

As they swim with their catch toward the surface, even with the buoyancy of the water, the weight of the fish is more than expected. Seeing them struggle, Luca, Sam, and Dhahi swim toward them to assist in getting the giant to the surface. With the help of Saju, a crewman, the five divers easily lift the giant fish into the boat.

Inflating their Fenzy buoyancy compensators, the five divers float on the surface of the water.

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Removing their regulators, Sam gives out an energetic “Wow! That beast must weigh a hundred pounds.”

“What a great shot, Mohammed!” Luca says. “That’s dinner for the next two nights.”

“Subhaan Allah, Shaikhi, I have never seen a Hammour that size,” Dhahi exclaims, while Mohammed exhibits a delighted smile.

Frankie asks Saju to take the fish back to the Puss and Hoot and hang it on the scales, then turns to the others. “Come on, guys. We’ve got some air left. Let’s head back down, and I’ll show you how to catch lobsters.”

Leading the two teams, Frankie drops down to about thirty feet and swims toward the nearest rocky ledge, scattered with small boulders and alcoves. In diver sign language, he points to the tips of two long lobster antennas moving gently in the water in one of the nooks. Without hesitation, he reaches his arm into the space up to his elbow and pulls out a magnificent lobster and puts it in the catch bag. Moving a few feet toward a small cave, he points inside where three lobsters lounge on small ledges.

Motioning for Luca to come closer, Frankie reaches in to grab one of the crustations, but it quickly moves toward the opening where Luca grabs it with both hands and puts it to the catch bag.

Moving into Luca’s position, Sam grabs the second and third lobsters which Frankie dislodges.

Seeing how the buddy system works, Luca and Dhahi move down the wall and quickly pluck several lobsters from their hiding places under the rocks and crevices that cut into the cliffs. After twenty minutes, Frankie gives the signal to head to the surface, and the five divers ascend to the fifteen-foot level and hang for the last five minutes before inflating their BC and slowly rising to the surface.

Having spotted the divers, one of the empty dinghies slowly approaches and cuts the engine, floating the last few feet toward them. Luca hands the lobster-laden catch bag to the crewman, 370

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and then removes his tank, lifting it into the boat. Dhahi and Sam follow suit, and then climb into the craft. Frankie and Mohammed float alongside until the second boat with Lou and Josh joins them, and they board.

On the stern deck of the Puss and Hoots, the seven divers stand around in wet bathing suits bantering over bragging rights.

Lou and Josh count eight good sized lobster in their bag, while the other five divers count only six, giving Josh reason to overly boast about his and Lou’s lobster-catching prowess.

Gathering around the goliath grouper hanging from the scales, everyone concedes that Mohammed and Frankie are the outright winners. The fish weighs in at more than sixty-five pounds, enough for lunch and dinner for guests and crew for two days.

After rehydrating and having a few snacks, Frankie suggests they relocate the yacht from the open water of Khasab into one of the fiords where it’s more protected from currents and the water is calmer so they could snorkel or play with the inflatables or paraglide behind one of the boats.

Getting a positive consensus from the boys, Frankie calls the wheelhouse from an intercom phone and requests the captain to come down and to bring a nautical chart. With map in hand, Captain John arrives and spreads it across the large table. “This is where we are moored now,” he explains, pointing to Khasab.

“Since we plan to dive near Telegraph Island tomorrow, why don’t we just go into Khor Ash Sham, the inner inlet of Khasab Bay today, and stay there for the night?” Frankie says, following the route on the chart with his index finger. “The entire inlet’s surrounded by the Hajar Mountains that dip down into the sea, creating the fiord.”

“I’ll radio the British naval base at Khasab to get permission,” Captain John says, Looking up from the map Frankie replies, “If you have any problems, let me know.”

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About half an hour later the crew announces they will be relocating the yacht and raise the anchor. Within minutes, the powerful engines kick in and the large vessel slowly cruises halfway up Khor Ash Sham. About fifty yards from the east wall of the fiord, Captain John reverses engines and holds the vessel in place while the crew drops the heavy anchor. Once the hook catches on the rocks below, the engine stops and the soft sounds of Elvis Presley can again be heard coming through the speakers.

Once the vessel is secured, Josh and Sam become restless and decide it’s time to snorkel along the side of the mountain wall that descends into the east side of the inlet.

“Anyone else want to join us?” Josh offers.

“I’ll come,” Luca responds.

Gathering mask, snorkel, and fins, the three men sit on the dive platform, gear up, and jump into the water. Before starting their short swim to the wall, Josh yells up to Veloo on deck to bring him a small spear gun and catch bag. “Might as well get some more fish,” he comments as he hands the catch bag to Luca.

Frankie and Lou watch from the deck as the trio head to the wall.

Lou asks Mohammed and Dhahi, “Are you interested in doing a recon of the Khor Ash Sham in the dinghy with Frankie and me before it gets too hot? We can get a good close-up view along the walls and pick our afternoon dive site. I’ll tell the boys to put snorkel gear in the boat for us just in case.”

“I’d like to have a look at that little beach at the end of the Khor. I saw it through the binoculars this morning,” Dhahi answers.

“You three go ahead. I think I’ll just take a nap and read in my cabin.” Mohammed replies.

Slowly cruising along the west wall of the Khor, the three men look down into the water for their afternoon dive location and talk about the future of Dubai and the Trucial States. “This is a 372

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very exciting time for us and especially for Shaikh Mohammed,” Dhahi explains, “He will soon be leaving for Officers Training at Mons Officer Cadet School-Aldershot in Hampshire, England, to prepare further for his future role in Dubai.”

“I imagine his father has big plans for him. I understand he’s already a licensed helicopter pilot,” Frankie comments.

“Yes, among many other skills as a horseman, marksman, and strategist. He will make a good Head of the Dubai Police and Dubai Defense Forces when he completes his training and returns.”

At the word “police,” Frankie and Lou raise their heads and make eye contact to assure each that they both heard the police comment. That will make things much easier for us to work together, Lou thinks to himself.

“Will you be going to England with him, Dhahi?”

“No, some of his relatives will be close by, but not at the school. The British are helping to prepare the police force for the day when they leave and Dubai is independent. Shaikh Mohammed feels that Colonel Harcross and his staff are doing a wonderful job training his men and has encouraged me to join after my studies.”

Coming up on the sandy alcove, Frankie accelerates and then cuts the engine, allowing them to float in with enough momentum to ground the bow in the sand. Disembarking, they walk along the pristine beach and pick up a few shells.

“What a beautiful and secluded beach. Someday, it will be full of tourists,” Frankie predicts.

“I hope not. Some things should remain natural, not ruined by progress. There are a lot of other beaches tourists can use,” Lou remarks.

Returning to the boat, they push the bow into the water, hop on, and start their return along the opposite mountain wall.

Coming upon the three snorkelers, Frankie yells, “Lunch in half an hour,” and then guns the engine, creating a whopping 373

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backwash that bobs the three snorkelers up and down like buoys.

Arriving back at the Puss and Hoots, Frankie throws the boat bumpers over the side, ties a line to the cleat, then steps onto the dive platform and climbs the four-rung ladder that accesses the stern deck. Reaching the top rung, he sees the outdoor table under the shaded canopy is set for lunch. Two large rotating fans make it a pleasant venue even in the midday heat. Walking to the galley, he checks that all is ready for the noon lunch.

Lou and Dhahi stay on the dive platform to greet and assist the snorkelers, grabbing masks and fins from Josh and Sam, who hop onto the platform and remove their BCD. Floating up and down in the water, Luca finally yells, “Can I have some help here? This bag is heavy,” He lifts the almost full yellow knit catch bag.

“Damn, that’s quite a catch,” Lou says as he climbs the ladder with the bag.

On deck, one of the crewmen dumps the contents of the bag in a large ice-filled tub while everyone gathers around.

“What do we have?” asks Luca.

Frankie points and explains, “Two squid, an angel fish, and a few nice, good-size seabream.”

“We call those ebzimi,” Dhahi says. “And those are shaari.”

He points to the pink-eared emperor. “Both are wonderful tasting fish.”

“You really know your fish,” Lou says.

“Living on the coast, most of us learn to fish before we walk.

Oh, those two are yanam. You call them sweet lips. Another tasty fish. You did well.”

Lunch is very casual with T-shirts and bathing suits the accepted dress. Once everyone is seated, Frankie picks up his water glass. “To our special guests, Mohammed and Dhahi, and to the sea for allowing us to harvest her bounty for our meals.”

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As soon as Frankie finishes his toast, three servers spring into action and attend to the guests, serving large filets of the golden-brown, deep-fried Gulf grouper and fries, accompanied by an array of salads and vegetables.

“This is the freshest fish I’ve ever eaten. Sea to table in three hours, thanks to Frankie and Mohammed,” Josh says, and then continues by offering his compliments to the chef.

“The French fries are really good, too,” Luca adds.

With a smirk, Sam looks at Mohammed and Dhahi. “I think he’s referring to the chips. These Americans know nothing about gourmet fried potatoes like the Brits. There’s nothing French about them.”

Laughing together, Lou offers a rebuttal, addressing his Dubaian friends, “Now that the Brits will be leaving, please feel free to call them whatever you like. I believe the Arabic word for potato is batata. How about batatis Arabian—Arabian potatoes.”

“How about we just eat rice?” Mohammed asks to the laughter of the diners.

Taking control of the conversation, Frankie announces the next dive will be at five. “Since everyone seemed quite comfortable this morning, we’ll keep the same teams unless anyone wants to change partners. No need for boat transport.

We did a scouting trip this morning, and it looks like the wall where Sam and his partners snorkeled is the best side for diving, and it’s only a fifty-yard swim.”

“What’s the plan?” Luca asks.

“Gear up on the dive platform, do your safety check with your partner, and then make step-off entry. Swim around the back to where the starboard anchor chain enters the water and hold there until your final check, then go down the anchor line and swim toward the wall with your partner. We’ll have a boat in the water if anyone gets tired or needs assistance.”

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“We have a couple of hours before the dive. Anyone who’s up for a parasail ride meet back here in thirty minutes,” Sam says. “The view from five hundred feet in the air is great.”

“I’ll take you up on that.” Mohammed nods.

“Me, too,” pipes up Josh.

“Looks like that leaves Dhahi and the rest of us tubing,” Frankie says.

Throwing his hands in the air and shaking his head back and forth, Dhahi asks, “What is tubing? I’ve never heard of it. Is it safe?”

“We pull one, two, or even three people on a special tire tube behind one of the boats. It’s great fun; you’ll love it. We all wear life jackets, so if you fall off, you’ll just float on the surface, and we come around and pick you up. Trust the Falconi boys.” **** By the end of the day, between the midafternoon activities and the late afternoon dive, the tired, yet still adrenaline-pumped divers meet in the salon at eight p.m. for pre-dinner cocktails and appetizers. When Nic has guests aboard, the rule for dinner dress in the main dining room would be smart casual, or black tie. Snubbing his nose in disdain for Nic’s rules, Frankie has told the guests earlier in the day to dress casually—shorts and jeans.

After repeating his afternoon toast, this time with a glass of white wine, Frankie asks the chef to explain the different ways he has prepared the variety of fish and lobsters.

Watching everyone eating copious amounts of seafood and wanting to taste the different species they caught, Lou notices that his special guests haven’t eaten any lobster. He asks Mohammed and Dhahi, “Are you not fond of lobster?”

“In Islam, only fish from the water are permissible to eat and not any other seafood. However, there is a disagreement amongst scholars whether prawns and lobsters are considered a fish or not. Since they resemble an insect, some experts say it should be 376

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avoided, but others say it’s okay to eat. Rather than unknowingly eating something that could be haram, most Muslims just avoid eating it.”

“Thank you for explaining that to us. I find Islam very interesting,” Lou says.

“I have a teacher who speaks very good English. If you’re interested in learning more about our religion, I would be happy to ask him to tutor you.”

“Thanks, Mohammed. I’ll take you up on that offer. World religions have always fascinated me.”

“Mohammed sure knows how to handle a parachute. He was zipping up and down, right and left, just like a pro,” Sam says as he joins the group.

“I’ve had some training and a bit of experience,” a modest Mohammed replies.

“Like twenty or more parachute jumps,” Dhahi says.

“Did you enjoy the tubing, Dhahi?” Mohammed asks.

“It was fun until Sam did a one-eighty-degree turn, and I lost my hold on the tube and flew ten feet in the air, landing on my bum. It’s still sore, but the ride was really exciting.”

“Well, I had a first-time life experience on my afternoon dive with Josh.” Leaning back in his chair and with a smile, Sam looks at Josh. “Josh and I partnered while Lou went off with Dhahi and Luca. We’re down at the bottom about fifty feet when Josh gives me a hand signal to hold in place. I grab on to a rock and watch in fascination as Josh deflates his BCD and stands on the sandy bottom. He then removes his diving tank from his back, drags the floating tank by the umbilical protruding from his mouth and takes cover behind a rock. Now I could only see him from chest up, but all the time he has this big grin on his face. What the fuck is he doing? I asked myself. Next, he’s waving his swim trunks around in a circle over his head to get my attention. A minute later, black/brown clumps rise slowly 377

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from behind him. Josh just took the first sub-sea crap I have ever seen. ‘Shit floats’ is a proven fact for me.”

After the riotous laughter and mischievous teasing, Josh sheepishly explains, “When ya gotta go, ya gotta go. What do you think fish do in that water?”

“Speaking of going,” Lou announces, “it’s past midnight, and I need to hit the hay. What’s the gameplan for tomorrow?”

Frankie responds, “I thought we could sleep a bit later and do another dive here in the fiord. Is eight good for everyone?”

With no objections voiced, Frankie continues, “After the dive, we’ll just hang here and repeat yesterday’s activities. After a light lunch, those interested can explore Telegraph Island, and then we make an early three p.m. final dive around an outcrop in the Strait of Hormuz that millions of years of erosion have shaped into a big giant donut sitting on end and is now known as Perforated Rock or Donut Rock.

“We’ll be cruising home tomorrow night. The kitchen crew will need to clean up and batten down the cooking equipment and supplies, so we’ll have an earlier dinner about six p.m.”

“Can I ask my fellow divers how come I always have to carry the catch bag?” Luca asks.

Frankie looks at Luca, and, between laughs, responds, “Have you never noticed the blood oozing from the catch bag you’re dragging around? Do you think the sharks are gonna let you get it to the surface? They can smell blood a mile away, and even though the small nurse sharks we’ve seen aren’t known for attacking people, they could easily confuse your arm for that bag.” Frankie gnarls, his fingers imitating shark teeth, and grabs Luca’s arm, making him twitch. “Now you know why we made you the bagman, Luca, my boy. Ha, ha ha.”

“One more question,” Lou asks, “does anyone know why they call it Telegraph Island?”

Without hesitation Mohammed offers to explain. “About a hundred years ago, the British established what they called 378

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a repeater station on the island to boost and relay telegraph messages along the submarine cable under the Arabian Gulf.

The cable was part of the London to Karachi cable. The site was abandoned about ten years after it was established. Ruins of the station and the operators’ quarters still remain, a symbol of the old British Colonial days.”

Engrained in his educator persona, Luca raises his hand like a kid in class. “I’d be interested in seeing it tomorrow.”

Jumping into the conversation, Sam offers the story he had been told by his British military colleagues. “Apparently, it wasn’t an easy post for the operators. The isolation, severe summer heat, and hostility of local tribes made the place extremely uncomfortable. It’s been recorded that one or two operators went mad, committing suicide, and one even tried to kill his co-operator. The term ‘go round the bend,’ meaning to ‘go mad or crazy,’ supposedly comes from the fact that the Brits assigned there who became desperate to leave and get back to civilization had to travel by ship ‘around the bend’ in the Strait of Hormuz, back to India.”

“Sounds spooky. I’m going with you, Luca. Maybe we can find bones or artifacts, or in this heat, maybe even a mummy!”

Josh exclaims.

“You’re a sick man, Josh Sampson. Bones and mummies. I think you’ve already gone around the bend,” Luca chides.

“That’s it for me, gents. Good night,” Lou bids.

“Does anyone want to join me for a movie?” Frankie asks.

“We have a few sixteen-millimeter films we can show on the screen in the salon.”

With no takers on his offer, Frankie also calls it a night and retreats to his berth. **** After the morning’s first dive and brunch, the divers relax on deck, a few playing cards at the table.

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Captain John comes on deck and greets everyone, then talks privately to Frankie and departs.

“Gentlemen, the Captain tells me that we have some very strong currents in the straights, and conditions in the khor here are much better for diving, snorkeling, parasailing or tubing. If anyone wants to explore the island, we can still run you out in one of the dinghies.

“Josh, and I are still interested in taking a look on the island before we dive.”

“Okay, let Veloo or Saju know when you want to go, and they’ll run you there. Anyone interested in the parachute or tubing?”

“Maybe a bit later.” Sam retreats to the lounge to lie on a sofa and read.

Soon Josh and Luca depart for their excursion to Telegraph Island. About an hour later, the explorers return, exhausted from the midday heat, and the two join the card players at the table.

“How was your trip?” Frankie asks.

“A bit boring. Just some old buildings. Not even a leg or arm bone,” Josh says in jest.

Just before the scheduled dive, Frankie musters the troops to gear up and get ready for their dive. “Final call. Who wants to go to Perforated Rock, and who wants to dive in the fiord?”

Unanimously, everyone agrees they want to do the rock dive.

“All right, but let me tell you what to expect. The currents in the straits can be treacherous. It’s like the force of water flushing down a toilet, only multiplied a million times. When tides change, water from the Indian Ocean runs into the Gulf, and later, the Gulf waters run into the Indian Ocean. Either way, until you get below sixty or seventy feet, you could get caught in the current and float the thirty-five miles across to Iran in no time.

“Do your dive calculations for eighty feet. We’ll shuttle everyone to the rock and drop an anchor line with a surface buoy 380

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attached and hook the first shelf at about forty feet. Once you enter the water, hold on to that line. When your partner is next to you, do your check and both descend the buoy line to the anchor. The first team down, make sure the anchor is secure in the rocks.”

Frankie looks around the group. “From the first shelf, the outcrops are like a stairway leading down to the ocean floor.

Follow the wall of the ledge to the second shelf, where you should be able to comfortably control your movements. That will be about seventy or eighty feet. With our standard cylinder, that is about thirty minutes of air. In these strong currents, I suggest you just sit on the rock shelf, stay calm, conserve your air, and watch the sea life swim all around you.”

“This will be like shooting fish in a barrel,” Josh comments.

“Sorry, Josh, no fishing. I know you’re trained to carry weapons and to do battle underwater, but you need your hands free to be able help your buddy on this dive,” Frankie says.

“Watch your breathing and air gauge. You’ll suck a lot of air if you are stressed. Save enough for a controlled ascent, and do a safety stop at fifteen feet for five minutes to blow off excess nitrogen in your body.”

“I think it’s best to make some buddy changes. Lou, you dive with Mohammed. Luca with Josh, and Sam with Dhahi.”

“Who are you diving with?” Luca asks Frankie.

“I’m going to stay in the boat on the surface to monitor the divers.”

Once Frankie oversees the three dive teams into the water, he jumps in to cool off. Holding on to the buoy line, he follows the bubbles like a shepherd watching his flock.

After half an hour, the first team to descend comes to the surface and struggles against the current to climb into the boat while the pilot tries to hold it steady. Once the second pair get onboard, Frankie starts to relax.

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“That was a great dive!” Josh exclaims. “My adrenaline was really pumping. I’ve done a lot of diving all over the world, and this was one of the best.”

“Amazing,” Dhahi offers. “I’m usually on top catching fish.

Now I know what it’s like to be a fish that someone is trying to catch. The strong current concerned me at first, but then Josh showed me how to move along by grabbing the rocks and pulling myself along like a mountain climber.”

After another ten minutes, Frankie becomes concerned about the last team and jumps into the water. Seeing that the bubbles aren’t as plentiful as he would expect from two divers, he decides to descend. About fifteen feet down the buoy line, he finds Lou, Mohammed’s buddy, breathing from Mohammed’s regulator while doing their safety stop. Giving them the okay in divers’ sign language, both return the same gesture.

Frankie offers his regulator, but they decline.

Mohammed looks at his watch and holds up two fingers, indicating only two minutes left.

Frankie stays with the duo until they ascend to the surface and assists them on board. Once they are out of the water, Frankie swims down to the anchor, unhooks it from the rocks, and carries it to the surface, handing it to Lou. After climbing aboard, Frankie motions for both boats to head back.

On the ride back, Frankie lets Lou and Mohammed know they had him a bit concerned since they took so much longer than the others.

“Sorry, Frankie.” Lou says. “I was so engrossed in the fish show that I forgot to check my air gauge and ran a bit short on the ascent. Mohammed and I just took a comfortable position on the ledge like you suggested, and sat calmly while barracuda, nurse sharks, stingrays, coral grouper, lionfish, angelfish, and so many others that I couldn’t identify, swam by. I never realized how much air I was sucking. “I’m sure I could’ve done an emergency 382

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ascent, but when Mohammed offered to share, I felt it was the safest option as it allowed for the safety stop.”

“I’ve been diving the Musandam many times,” Mohammed says, “but today I felt like I was inside a fishbowl. I was mesmerized with the variety and quantity of fish and their close proximity. It must have something to do with the depth and strong current that draws them to these ledges.”

“Thanks for taking care of Lou, Mohammed. He was supposed to keep an eye on you. I forget about the life experiences and professional training you’ve already had.”

Mohammed smiles at Frankie. “Thank you for your concern.”

Once back at the yacht, the divers and crew stow all of the gear and clean out the boats so they can be lifted into their tender davits for the journey back to Dubai. **** At 6:00 p.m., the seven divers gather in the dining salon for another evening of gastronomic delights from the chef and galley staff.

Dinner conversation is a bit subdued. Fighting the strong currents in the straits seemed to have exhausted everyone, and anticipation of the conversation that needed to be had after dinner restrained the verbal flow. Even Mohammed was quiet, as if anticipating something was coming.

As previously orchestrated, as dessert is served, Sam says, “I’d like to enjoy my pudding under the stars. The sky here is beautifully clear with no light pollution.” Josh and Luca immediately volunteer to join him, and the three take their plates of tiramisu and excuse themselves.

With just the four main characters left at the dinner table, Lou ignores his Italian sweet and starts to recite his mentally prepared speech. Rather than waiting for Frankie to open the discussions, he jumps right in. “Mohammed, Frankie and I would like to talk to you, not as our friend, but as the son of 383

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my Ruler.” Going off script, he nervously reveals everything they know about the hashish being smuggled from Majid’s and other dhows to the MOMS’ workboat. Beginning with the eavesdropped conversation at the Ten Tola to his and Frankie’s drydocking the workboat and finding the block of hash in one of the cabins, he explains all in detail. “Where the drugs go after being transferred from the dhows to the workboat is still unknown,” Lou admits.

Once Lou is finished, Frankie takes over. “I did an outside audit of our books and found that substantial bonuses were authorized by Nic Nicandro to the captains of several of our boats, leading Lou and I to believe that Nic is involved.”

Mohammed and Dhahi sit in silence during the entire explanation. Finally, Mohammed asks, “Was there any unusual income showing on the books that may have come from sources other than normal operations?”

“Nothing that we found,” Frankie replies. “That tells us he isn’t running his drug income through the company. The fact that the bribes to the captains were authorized by Nic and paid with company money rather than his own drug proceeds may indicate he hasn’t sold this shipment. Lou and I believe this side deal is Nic’s and nothing the family would condone.”

“Our partners in New Orleans will be very unhappy that he is using their profits to fund his private operation,” Lou adds.

Looking at Dhahi, Mohammed nods. Dhahi stands and leaves the table. He returns shortly with two blocks of hash, placing them in the middle of the table.

Seeing the hash, Frankie gets up from the table and unlocks one of the doors on the buffet cupboard along the wall and removes the block of drugs retrieved by him and Lou. Sitting it on the table next to the other two, they are all identical in size, wrapping, and markings.

An astonished Lou looks at his Shaikh. “So, you’re already aware of this problem?”

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“Yes. My father has me covertly working with Colonel Harcross in the Dubai Police for the last year as training for some of my future duties. One area we have been expanding on is the Crime Investigation Department, the CID. With the vast trade that comes in and out of our khor, we’ve set up a system to monitor the smuggling of illegal goods into Dubai by infiltrating the crews of most Dubai flagged vessels with undercover officers.”

Mohammed stands and bends over the table, picking up one block in his right hand and the other in his left. Visibly upset, he bangs the right-hand block on the table. “This was discovered by one of our agents on a dhow owned by Majid.” Then banging the left-hand block of hash on the table, he announces, “I found this in my cabin yesterday. If you recall, I went there to read and relax, but my intent was to search the master bedroom. One of the drawers under the bed was locked. When I picked it open, inside was this surprise.”

Stunned into silence, Lou finally explodes. “That son of a bitch Nic is not only a traitor to our family, he’s stupid. Hiding this in his own cabin. There’s only one way to correct stupid—a bullet in the brain—if you can find it.”

“Your Highness,” Lou says, reverting to the formal address, “I and my family are against any type of drugs, arms dealing, or human trafficking. Everyone I brought to Dubai, including Nic, swore an oath not to participate in those businesses. We just want to run legitimate establishments and help your fledgling country grow so we can grow with it.”

Excitedly, Lou continues, “Talk to Pat Riley, at Continental, he can confirm our intentions. Frankie and I recruited Sam, Josh and Luca, so we could work with you to expose the leaders, and our plan on this trip was to do just as we have done––tell you about the smuggling and help to clean up this mess.”

“Calm down, Lou! My original intention for coming on this trip was to expose you. Dhahi was specifically selected 385

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to accompany me in this task, and I’ve been in constant radio contact with my people in Dubai.”

Mohammed sits back down and takes a drink of water. “As the top man in charge of your operations here, I was certain you were involved. I even have a team in place to meet us at the dock in the morning ready to deport you immediately. But now I see we would be cutting off the wrong head.”

Following Lou’s example, Frankie addresses his friend formally. “Your Highness, I don’t believe Nic left that block of hash by accident. The Puss and Hoots is scheduled to go to the Red Sea next week, then through the Suez Canal into the Mediterranean to Sicily for an engine overhaul. We haven’t found any indication that the drugs he brought into Dubai from Iran have been sold or moved out of Dubai. Knowing Nic, he has probably accumulated it all in one large cache of drugs and is planning to take it to Europe on the yacht after stopping in the Red Sea and Mediterranean under the guise of a pleasure excursion with clients aboard. Nic was very upset when Lou and I commandeered the Puss and Hoots for this trip. He was hoping to leave for the Med this weekend. I think all the drugs are already stowed somewhere on board. That block of hash you found may have been kept out for entertainment or personal use.

The yacht was moored at the MOMS yard during the Six Day War. That may be when he hid them.”

“Let us follow this trail, while your people work on the dhow angle. We’ll guarantee that we will cut off the right head—or heads.” Sitting back in his chair, Mohammed contemplates, mentally strategizing, and deciding if he can still trust Frankie and Lou as friends.

“We need to search the yacht to see if we can find the drugs onboard, and we need to do it tonight before we get back to Dubai,” Lou says to Mohammed.

“That will take too much time,” Mohammed replies, “and the cargo may even be enclosed in the hull or sides of the yacht.

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It seems to me that it would be hard for the captain or some of the crew not to be aware of what is going on.”

Turning to Frankie, Mohammed asks, “Did you notice if Captain John received any of the bonuses?”

“Actually, yes, for the last three months.”

“Do you have someone who can manage the vessel if your captain becomes incapacitated?”

“Yes, the first mate and myself,” Frankie answers.

“Instruct the service crew to clean the dining room and close the window curtains, but they are to leave the three blocks of hash on the table. I want them to see it,” Dhahi orders. “And bring me some rope, a speargun, a big dive knife, and a pair of needle tip pliers, as well as water and a first aid kit.

“When I’m ready, I’ll let you know, and you will have Josh and Sam bring the captain down to me. Tell them to be physically rough, and with enough noise and commotion so the rest of the crew sees what is happening. Once we have the captain, gather all of the crew and bring them into the salon with their ID cards.”

“I’ll get right on it,” Frankie says, as he briskly walks to the deck to talk to his cohorts. **** On the back deck, Frankie tells Josh, Luca, and Sam what has transpired and then instructs Sam and Josh to bring Captain John to the dining room in about thirty minutes. “Be a bit rough on him and make a lot of noise. Come to the dining room through the galley, so most of the crew can see. Once you deliver him to Dhahi, gather the crew in the lounge.”

“Luca,” Frankie orders, “get some rope, a speargun, a big dive knife, a pair of needle tip pliers, water, and a first aid kit, and take it to the dining room for Dhahi.”

“I’m on it, Frankie.” Luca immediately gets up from the table and strides off towards the dive gear and tool stowage.

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Taking the gathered items into the dining room, Luca sees that Dhahi has moved one of the chairs away from the foot of the table and set a small coffee table next to it. “Frankie said you wanted these items.”

“Yes, thank you, just put everything on the table, except the speargun and rope. Lay them on the floor next to the chair.”

As an anxious Luca starts to leave, but Dhahi touches his arm. “Can you tell Frankie to bring the captain down?”

Josh and Sam play their roles well, and the noisy prisoner transfer is heard throughout the yacht.

Hearing the ruckus, Mohammed looks at Lou. “It’s time we join Dhahi.”

Entering the dining room, they see Josh and Sam tying Captain John to the chair and putting medical tape across his mouth. Next to the hotseat, Dhahi arranges the dive knife, spear tip, pliers, and a steak knife from dinner on the table next to the already shaking captain. And just for an added touch, he puts the first aid kit where it can be easily seen.

“Lou, tell Frankie we’re ready for the crew to be brought in.”

Opening the doors to the lounge, Frankie instructs the crew to follow him single file and enter the redecorated interrogation room. Guiding them to stand along the back of the room where they can see the hash blocks on the table and their captain tied and gagged, the men are visibly shaken.

Stepping forward, Frankie addresses his employees, explaining they are looking for blocks of goods like the ones on the table, and why it would be best to help if they know anything about it. If they were just doing what their boss directed, there would be no severe consequences, and they might even be able to keep their job.

Dhahi, speaking in a mixture of Hindi, Urdu, and Arabic, takes over and again explains the situation to them. Turning to Captain John, he nonverbally demonstrates what will happen if they are not truthful. First the tip of a spear is partially inserted 388

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in the right nostril, stuck in far enough not to cause injury, but to stick inside without falling out. He then picks up the needle nose pliers and lifts the captain’s index finger, showing how he will remove each fingernail. Finally, as the coup de grâce, he takes the dive knife and mimics slitting John’s throat.

Even Lou, the former SAS officer, and Josh, the ex-Green Beret are shaken by the demo, while the crew, some wetting their clothes and all whimpering, show their willingness to talk.

Lou asks Frankie to take the crew back to the lounge and bring them in one by one. After talking to each of the staff, Dhahi is confident they know nothing and sends them back to their quarters after confiscating their ID cards. The last crewman is Raju, Chief Engineer, who, without hesitation, tells Dhahi that he has not seen anything hidden, but when he boarded to prepare for the trip, he noticed the steel floor tiles in the engine room had been spot welded so they can’t be lifted for maintenance of cables and electrical and steam lines. He planned to report it when they returned to port.

“Show us!” Dhahi demands.

Leading the way to the engine room, he points out the spot welds on the floor.

“Do you have a welder and gas aboard?” Frankie asks Raju.

Getting a positive response, he orders him to get them.

Unlocking a gated storage unit, Raju rolls out a large oxygen/ acetylene bottle and cutting torch.

Deciding where to start, Frankie points to one of the threefoot-by-three-foot metal tiles and orders, “Cut the spot welds on this one.”

Donning his welding gloves and goggles, Raju complies.

In a few minutes, the weld is red hot and he is able to break through. After twenty minutes, all the welds on the steel section are cut and Raju brings a prybar to lift the flooring.

Circling the square floor opening, the seven dive companions are stunned. Getting down on his knees, the academic Luca does 389

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the math and calculates there are about twenty blocks stored around cables and pipes. Even if they were hidden under only half of the flooring, there would be about two hundred blocks.

“Holy shit!” Frankie exclaims. “This is a bigtime cartel deal.” Remembering the number of two hundred thousand dollars per block as street value he’d overheard in the discussion at the Ten Tola, Frankie announces, “This ship has about forty million dollars of street value hash hidden on it. Wholesale to a distributor at twenty-five percent on the dollar, that’s ten million dollars Nic and his pirates will make. Raju, reweld the plate in the same spots.”

Retreating to the dining room, Lou’s dark nature emerges from deep in his psyche. Having worked hard over the last two years to suppress that part of his character, he angrily summons it to the surface. He approaches Captain John and, with intentional malice, rips the tape from his mouth. “I want to know everything—and now,” he demands, slapping him across the face, raising a large red welt. “You can tell us the truth, and maybe His Highness will show some mercy. If you don’t, your body will be food for the fishes, minus fingernails, teeth, and nose—the one on your face and the one between your legs.”

Menacingly, Lou reaches for the pliers and clamps them on John’s right earlobe, drawing blood and a loud scream.

Frankie watches his cousin and wonders if he should intervene.

Before he can say anything, the captain, his body and voice shaking, blurts out, “I had no choice, Mr. Lou. I needed the job and was told if I didn’t do what was asked, I would be fired and sent back to Manila. Please, please, I have a large family to support.”

“You didn’t seem to have a problem accepting bonuses for the last few months,” Frankie says. “You ultimately report to me. Why didn’t you tell me what Nic was ordering you to do?”

“It wasn’t Mr. Nicandro, sir.”

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A skeptical and disappointing look crosses Frankie’s face.

“It was Larry Dubois, my immediate supervisor.”

“Was this Larry’s deal, or was he just skimming?”

“Mr. Frankie, he was just taking some of the product and selling it himself. He told me if I keep my mouth shut about the transfers from the dhows, he’d make sure I’d get a good monthly bonus approved by Mr. Nicandro.”

“Sam and Josh, take him to one of the empty cabins and lock him in. Keep his hands tied and mouth gagged.”

Addressing Mohammed, Lou continues, “Maybe your trained interrogators can get more out of him.”

“I’m sure they can,” Dhahi answers on behalf of his boss and friend.

Once Sam and Josh return, the seven drug busters exit the dining room and sit casually around the lounge brainstorming.

A now calm Mohammed addresses Lou, “When we get back to shore, the entire crew will be arrested and deported. I can’t take a chance that one of them talks about this in Dubai.”

“I understand, but if we do that, Nic will know for sure we’re on to him. We can explain that Captain John had an emergency at home and had to fly to Manila. But it will be hard explaining the entire crew leaving.”

Having been able to again suppress his dark side, Lou becomes a champion for the crew. “Please, these crewmen support big families in India and Pakistan. I need them on the Puss and Hoots until after the trip to Sicily. You saw how frightened they were. They will be more loyal to Frankie and me than any other crew we could replace them with. After that, we can transfer them to offshore jobs for the next few months until this thing smooths over. Until next week’s trip, they will be ordered to stay on the yacht. I’ll have a security guard to ensure no one leaves.”

“What’s your plan for the voyage?” the Shaikh asks.

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“Frankie and I will tell Nic that we decided to tag along on the yacht to dive in Ras Mohammed to see the great white sharks in the Red Sea. Both of us are scheduled to travel back to New Orleans for the US Fourth of July holiday, so we’ll explain that we’re driving from where the yacht will be based in Hurghada to Cairo, and then flying to the USA from there. “We’ll take care of business before we disembark. Those goods will never hit the street. You’ve given me two weeks, right? I know you’re like your father, a man of your word.”

“The Suez has been closed since the war and is not expected to open again for some time. You better have a backup plan,” Mohammed suggests. “How you do this is your concern, but if this problem is not taken care of, don’t bother coming back to Dubai.”

“Not only will the cargo problem be over before we return, but the entire organized scheme will be eliminated,” Lou pledges.

“Okay, you can keep the crew, except the engineer, who has seen where the drugs are hidden. You will have to replace him and send him home immediately, with a big bonus. The police will take Captain John and pick up Larry Dubois for interrogation. From what you’ve told me, this Dubois is already guilty of possessing and dealing drugs. If he’s honest and tells us about Nic’s involvement, his fate will be much better than twenty years in one of our prisons.”

“There is a big market for Western male slaves in Arabia,” Dhahi says with a giggle.

“Come to my cabin, Lou. We need to continue our discussions privately,” Mohammed orders. **** Sitting in one of the two Windsor chairs in the master suite, Shaikh Mohammed dictates the terms of their alliance. “We will work together on this problem, but it will be done in total confidence. You and your team may never discuss anything we 392

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do outside of the group.”

Holding his right hand over his heart, Lou says, “Wallah Billah, I swear that all our dealing remains between us only. I will always be loyal to you and your father.”

“Here is my offer. You have two weeks to make these drugs disappear before it gets to a buyer. If the drugs vanish and the smuggling into the Trucial States stop in two weeks, I will give you until the first of September to get your house in order.

“My people will work on the dhow connection, and my father and I will deal with the people behind it. I will inform my father of this conversation and my agreement with you. Again, all of this is to remain confidential. I don’t want anyone but our group to know about this. If I’m not convinced that after two weeks you have done what has been agreed, all of your companies will be nationalized and bank accounts blocked, and you, and all of your management and staff, will be deported.”

“I guess you could say this is an offer I can’t refuse,” Lou says in a subdued tone. He turns to the shaikh. “One more thing, shaikh, how do I deal with Majid bin Jabir? He is my point of contact and, as you know, our family, has business relations with him and your father.”

“Treat him no differently, but guard your words with him. If he is involved, we will attend to Jabir in our own way and in our own time.

“We knew God’s oil blessing would bring problems with the influx of Westerners. This drug smuggling is only the first of many. I believe you’re sincere, and if we deal with this successfully, we can work together in future situations.

“Between us two only, I’m convinced that Majid is involved with Nic. However, the manner in which you and your family deal with Nic is your business. Majid is my business. I know he has taken advantage of my father on many occasions and will continue to do so. Unfortunately, my father believes that Majid’s counsel is very important at this time and turns a blind eye to his 393

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shady dealings.

“When I found where Dubai’s pre-production infrastructure loan was coming from, I was skeptical and knew Majid would benefit immensely. My father also knew, but he was desperate and agreed with the terms. Had this drug situation led back to you and the investors, my concerns would have been vindicated and I would have sought the help of the British and US governments to rid us of your involvement. You can thank your friend Pat Riley for telling me about you.”

“Ah, seems we have the same source regarding the Federal Bureau of Narcotics.”

Smiling but without answering, Mohammed, continues, “Pat tells me you are one of the few Western businessmen to make the effort to learn our language, study our religion, history and culture, and are sincerely concerned about the Rulers and people here and our future. He also vouches for the professional and ethical way you run your businesses here. There is much we can do together to guide Dubai’s future. Let’s clean up this mess first.”

“I would be honored to work with you, Your Highness.”

“Regarding Majid. We Arabs are a patient people. The time will come when the education and training parts of my life will be over, and I will take on full-time roles assisting my father.

At some point, inshallah, I will have the power and authority to deal with bin Jabir. It may take ten, even twenty or thirty years, but I will have my justice and his misdeeds and disloyalty will be exposed. His loss of face will cause more pain than any jail cell. Should you hear or obtain any information about him or his business dealings that I should know, tell me immediately.”

“Is the CID aware that arms and possibly drugs may be coming through Ras Al Khaimah?” Lou asks Mohammed.

“According to our sources, the British Defense Forces are not going to do much to investigate it. They’ll check boats but not waste time looking into who’s involved. My team and I can help 394

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Shaikh Saqr on this.”

“Yes, I’m aware and have offered Shaikh Saqr any assistance he needs. He believes he knows who may be involved, but it is a sensitive issue for him. He said he will deal with it himself, but it would be good to let His Highness know if you find out anything and can help him.”

“Is there anyone in the Ras Al Khaimah royal family I should be concerned about?” Lou asks.

“Everyone, especially the Crown Prince, Shaikh Khalil,” Mohammed responds. “The Ruler’s advisor Toufiq Abdul Kazim has been a loyal friend and confidant to His Highness for many years. I believe you can trust him.” Mohammed stands. “Come, let’s join our friends in the lounge.” **** At five Saturday morning, the Puss and Hoots, under control of Frankie and First Mate Antonio and with Lou as back-seat pilot, makes a perfect dockage at the Customs Wharf.

“Do you have your USCG Captain’s license for this class of vessel?” Frankie asks Antonio after he makes a faultless mooring.

“Yes, sir.”

“Is it on file in the office?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Congratulations. You’re the new captain of the Puss and Hoots,” Frankie says as he watches several policemen put Captain John in a police car.

Shaikh Mohammed, Colonel Harcross, and Dhahi climb the outside stairs to the wheelhouse. Frankie tells Antonio he’s dismissed and to go to his quarters.

Lou opens the outside steel door to welcome Harcross and wish Mohammed and Dhahi a good morning.

“Sounds like you’ve had quite the excursion,” Harcross comments as he greets Lou and Frankie.

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“I’ve been able to procure Semtex, similar to C4 explosives, from a friend in the British forces who has access to their arsenal in Sharjah, but the electrical detonators and other paraphernalia have to come through the munitions black market in Eastern Europe,” Sam explains to Lou and Frankie. “A Lebanese friend has access to his country’s diplomatic pouch and, for the right price, can bring in what is needed from Czechoslovakia before the end of the week. The Semtex will guarantee total destruction of the engine room and its hidden cargo, but we’ll need to set some Limpet mines on the hull of the vessel to make sure she goes to the bottom, and I can’t procure them from any of my sources. It seems the Israelis have purchased all of them from the world’s arms dealers.”

“We’re in survival mode, so money is no object. Pay your Lebanese friend what you need to get your stuff here before next week,” Lou replies. “I can get a line on obtaining the Limpet mines.”

Hearing Lou’s comment, Sam gives him an inquisitive look.

“Where in hell can you find Limpet mines? Are you sure they aren’t limp-dick mines?” Frankie says breaking into a laugh.

“Smart ass. I have friends in high places,” a dead pan-faced Lou responds, and then laughs.

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“What in hell is a Limpet mine?” Frankie asks.

“It’s a magnetic mine developed by the Germans in WWII and still used today,” Sam explains. “It’s called Limpet because it looks like the Limpet Sea Snail that clings to rocks and hard surfaces. A diver attaches the mine to the hull of a ship, below the waterline, and sets a timer detonator. You and Lou should easily manage.”

Frankie informs Lou and Sam that with the closure of the Suez Canal and navigation restrictions imposed by Saudi and Sudan since the war, they are confined to the southern portion of the Red Sea. “We can’t go to Ras Mohammed at the tip of the Sinai, nor Hurghada. The good news is that we’ll be cruising over the Suakin Trough, Southwest of Jeddah, and Southeast of Port Sudan. The trough is the deepest part of the Red Sea, over nine thousand feet. Ships that have sunk in that area have never been found. Damn, I guess the insurance loss assessors won’t be able to do their inspections,” Frankie grins.

“Smart ass.” Lou smirks and shakes his head. “What’s the route we’ll be taking?”

“I’ve only charted the voyage to the point of no return. No sense doing it all the way to Sicily.”

“Even though Nic’s not going on the trip, you better plot the entire trip in case he asks to see it.”

“I didn’t think of that. I’ll get it done.”

“When I told Nic that in order to get the yacht to Sicily, the crew would have to take it around the Cape of Good Hope, an additional four thousand nautical miles more than through the Suez, he almost crapped. I thought it was because he was upset about the additional fuel costs and crew time, but he made it clear that the yacht had to be in port in Messina, Sicily, by July second, and authorized the extra expense. He said he would fly there to meet the Puss and Hoots when it arrives so he can make sure all the work needed on the engines is properly done.”

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“Hmmm. July second must be the date agreed by Nic and the buyer to meet in Sicily for the sale,” Lou says. “What’s our best route option?”

“I don’t have a chart here, but it’s quite simple. We go around the straits of Hormuz to Salalah, Oman, and dock in port there for the first night. The next day we enter the Gulf of Aden and cruise through the straits of Bab-el-Mandeb, known as the ‘Gate of Lamentation,’ that connects the Gulf of Aden with the Red Sea.” “Gate of Lamentation. Sounds ominous,” Lou says.

“Apparently, it can be difficult navigating through the strait, and throughout history many ships have been lost. Thus, the name.” Frankie shrugs. “After that, we head to Port Sudan to check in with Sudanese customs and immigration and get their okay to dive.”

“Wouldn’t it be better to go into Jeddah and dive Saudi waters?” Sam suggests.

“It would, but they will do a full on-board inspection, which could be very bad for us. With a few presents, the Sudanese officials can easily be persuaded not to impose on us. Best if we stay away from the Saudi side.”

“What about the crew?” Lou asks Sam and Frankie. “We don’t want to have anyone hurt—nor have them kept as guests by the Sudanese.”

“Hopefully, with Dubai visas in their passports, the Saudi’s will send them back there with no problems.”

“Frankie and I have discussed how to indoctrinate the crew to make sure everyone is on the same storyline. Once you depart, Frankie and I will do some safety training onboard with them, including an abandon-ship drill. During the exercise, he instructs them to always secure their passports and legal documents first, and once in their lifeboats, travel east towards the Saudi coast.

Saudi territorial water is only ten or fifteen nautical miles, and the Saudi Coast Guard will pick them up. The crew is so grateful 398

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they still have a job, they’ll memorize every word Frankie tells them.”

Sam takes a breath and continues, “Ten minutes before the timer in the engine room is activated, Frankie will set off the engine room fire alarm. Lou will be on the bridge with Captain Antonio and order him to immediately give the abandon ship order. This will give the crew extra time to get their personal stuff and get on life rafts. Everything will be incorporated in the training drills.

“A half hour after the crew evacuates, the engine room blast goes off. Fire should spread slowly. That explosion won’t sink the vessel, but only burn it to the waterline, which is why we need to detonate the Limpet mines as soon as possible after the initial blast to ensure the Puss and Boots and forty million dollars in hash will be no more—just another ship that disappeared into the Suakin Trough.

“When crew members are questioned by the Saudi officials, they’ll each have the same story—a fire alarm went off and the captain ordered them to abandon ship. Once in the lifeboat, they heard an explosion, and later more explosions.”

“What about placing and rigging the Semtex?” Sam asks.

“Since I won’t be coming on this escapade, we’ll need someone familiar with ordinance that I can train to place and connect the Semtex.”

“Frankie’s been trained in using Semtex in his professional dive training. He’s set some small charges on jack-up drilling rigs. This is not much different, just a bigger blast. So, he can handle that. A refresher from you would help, and you can brief us on how to set the Limpets.”

“Are you sure you don’t want Josh Sampson to come with you two?” Sam asks. “He’s been trained in ordinance.”

“I’d like to keep this to just Frankie and me. The less anyone else knows about the onboard operation, the better. I’ll know more about the Limpet mines when we meet tomorrow.”

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**** “Pat Riley, please.”

After a brief pause, Pat’s voice is heard on the line. “Lou, how was your dive trip over the weekend? Did Mohammed enjoy it?”

“Interesting, to say the least. I think he was pleased with everything. When you’re free for lunch or a drink, I can fill you in on the details,” Lou replies. “I need to get in contact with that friend of yours, the one you introduced me to at my office.”

Never missing the opportunity to get out of the office, Pat replies, “Why don’t I come by the Ten Tola for a drink this afternoon? Then you can tell me about the Musandam outing.”

“That would be great. I’m here until late this evening. Just ask for me when you get here.”

“Sounds good. See you later.”

Out of habit, Lou holds the receiver until he hears a single click indicating the line is broken. Instead, he hears a doubleclicking sound. Someone is still tapping his phone. Shit.

At four, the bartender calls Lou on the intercom, “Mr. Falconi, Pat Riley is here asking for you.”

“Please tell him I’ll be right down.”

Seeing Pat sitting at the bar, he walks up behind him and places his hands on Pat’s shoulders. From behind, Lou formally greets him, “Hi, Patrick. Come, let’s sit at my table in back.”

Lou turns to the barman, Omar. “Two scotches on ice,” he says as he starts for his rear booth table.

Once seated, the two friends receive their drinks and toast.

“Sahtein,” they both say, “to your health.”

“It must have been a very interesting dive trip if you need to talk to our friend,” Pat says.

“Maybe you should take another big gulp before I start.

First, I want to thank you for vouching for me with Shaikh Mohammed.”

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Picking up his glass, Pat does a Lou suggests and downs the almost full tumbler. “I didn’t say anything I didn’t believe. I did have to tell him some of your flaws, just to balance the good and bad.”

“Ha, I don’t have flaws. I’m a perfect diamond—just a bit rockheaded at times.”

Lou orders some snacking food, and then tells Pat what he can about the trip and his discussions with Shaikh Mohammed, avoiding the intimidation scenes. “So, the only way to solve this problem within my two-week deadline is to eliminate the cargo.

That’s why I need to talk to Wolfgang. I need some materials I’m sure he can obtain for me.”

“What about Nic? How do you plan to deal with him?”

“Frankie and I will be traveling to NOLA for the Fourth of July weekend. When we’re there, we will confer with the family.

It’s up to the families on how we deal with Nic.” “I can arrange a call with Wolfgang, but it will have to be done in my office on a secure phone. When do you want to talk?”

“ASAP.” “Let’s finish our drinks and head to my office now. Almost everyone is gone by this time of the day.” **** Once Pat gets Wolfgang on his secure phone line, he excuses himself so Lou can converse in private. Ten minutes later, Lou exits the office and finds Pat sitting at his secretary’s desk.

“Done. Thank you again. Wolfgang and I should be even now.”

“Lou, you know how it is in your family. It’s the same with these guys—a favor begets a favor. The next Israeli war, the next problem you have—even, is never even.”

At first ignoring the comment, Lou looks at Pat. “Many times, I’ve heard my uncle say, ‘Someday, and that day may never come, I would like to call upon you to do me a service in return,’ and I’ve learned that day always comes, and sometimes 401

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more than once. It’s just business,” Lou says. “If all is ready, we sail tomorrow or Wednesday. Assuming all goes well, I’ll be back by mid-July. Sam’s running the show, so if you need anything or want to know how to contact me, ask Sam.” “Good luck, Lou, and Fi Amanillah—Go with the safety of Allah!”

“Shukron, habibi. Thanks for your help, Pat.” **** Eager to tell Sam about his success, Lou returns to the Ten Tola and informs Sam that the Limpets will be delivered to the yacht in Salalah, Oman. “I’ve been told the turbine type is not always dependable, so we agreed on using the manual timed devices. The problem is that the timers are limited to thirty minutes. They’ll also include some electrical timed detonators for the Semtex that only need one metal prod inserted into the claylike explosive.”

“It’s too late to call off my Lebanese friend, but we can store what he brings in. Never can tell when we might need them again. By the way, Frankie just called and said the vessel is good to go Tuesday afternoon. I guess delivery of your ordinance is the only variable left.”

“I’ll telex you from the boat when it arrives, so you can relax.”

“Lou, I’ll always worry about you. You’re more to me than a partner.”

“And you to me, my friend. I see you as one of my closest advisors. In the family we use the term consigliere. Frankie and I will be fine. I’ve got a date with Flick, so I’m heading home.

See you tomorrow.”

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**** “How did Flick take the news of you being gone for two or three weeks?” Sam asks Lou as they sit and have a morning coffee.

“She was fine with it. She has some vacation coming, so she decided now is a good time to visit her mom and dad and extended family in England. She’ll be too busy to even think about me.”

“Nah, she’s smitten. She’ll call you every day.”

“Smitten. My God! You Brits and your vocabulary. What in hell is smitten?”

“She’s in love, Lou. If you’re not serious, you need to cool things down or she’ll really get hurt when the time comes—” Frankie strides in. “Morning, boys. We are good to go tomorrow afternoon. Soon all this shit will be behind us.”

“Coffee, Frankie?” Sam asks as he reaches for the pot and a cup from the serving tray.

“Thanks, just black, please.”

“What have you set up for our dive cover?” Lou asks.

“I’ve picked three dive locations off Port Sudan, Jumna, Sha’ab Anbar, and the last one Sei Ada Kebir, which is the farthest away from the coast and over the Suakin Trough.”

“Sounds good. Might as well enjoy ourselves for a couple of days. How was Nic before he flew to Beirut yesterday?”

“He seemed a bit antsy and irritable, but he’s always an asshole.” **** Tuesday afternoon June 27, 1967

Shoving off from its mooring, the Puss and Hoots, slowly makes its way down to the mouth of the Creek and gradually accelerates until it’s in the shipping lanes, where it reaches 403

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cruising speed. That night, as planned, the boat enters the Salalah harbor and docks at its a pre-arranged jetty.

Rising early Wednesday morning, Lou anxiously awaits some sign of his expected merchandise. An hour later, a truck with “Oman Ship Chandlers in stenciled letters on the side, pulls alongside the quay and unloads several boxes of what appear to be fruits and vegetables onto a four wheel trolly. As the driver starts to pull his cart up the ramp, Captain Antonio appears. “We didn’t order any of this!” he shouts to the deliveryman.

Lou yells down from the back deck, “That’s okay, Captain.

Mr. Frankie ordered it.”

Giving the deliveryman the okay to board, the captain does what is expected and starts to look through the top crate before signing the delivery ticket. By then, Lou has reached the ramp.

“No need to count every piece of fruit or vegetable. There’s some diving equipment in there also. Just have him put all of it on the back deck. Frankie and I can sort the boxes and take out the diving items. We’ll send the rest to the galley.”

“Yes, sir,” responds the captain, who signs the receipt and directs the deliveryman to the back deck.

By then, Frankie is up and has joined Lou on deck with the boxes. After separating the food items, the four crates of fruits and vegetables become three and are sent to the kitchen.

As Frankie and Lou take the one remaining crate to the master cabin, Frankie says, “These aren’t as heavy as I thought they’d be.”

“Since the Second War, they’ve improved them and have the diameter under four inches and the weight to under four pounds each. I was told they have a smaller version called a Clam, which is about two and a half inches in diameter and weighs about two pounds. They might not do the job, so I insisted on the Limpets,” Lou explains.

In the privacy of the bedroom, they take inventory of the goods. Lou removes each mine carefully, one by one. Holding 404

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one up, he looks at Frankie. “See how they’re packed? Each one in a condom. I was told it keeps them dry from moisture for shipping.”

“I guess that’s appropriate, as they’re gonna be used on a prick’s yacht and his narcotics,” Frankie says with a chuckle as he cautiously repacks the four mines.

“These should definitely do the job,” Lou says as Frankie finishes the packing. “We need to pierce the hull to make sure she goes to the bottom.”

Lou hands Frankie a laminated sheet of paper. “Here are instructions and diagrams on how and where we need to place them for maximum effect. At least six feet below the waterline is optimum.”

Taking the sheet from Lou, Frankie does a quick scan. “It looks like a simple operation, same as the instructions Sam gave us. A powerful magnet holds them on the hull. We just need to place them in strategic locations to ensure the biggest hole. I suggest we place two together on the starboard hull and two together on the port side hull, concentrating the blast for maximum effect. She’ll go down quick, so we’ll want to be far enough away to avoid our Zodiac inflatable being pulled back toward the suction created by the sinking ship.”

“I’ve been thinking,” Frankie says, “we won’t arrive in Port Sudan until Thursday morning. Once we get our approvals and immigration procedures finished, we should head for Sha’ab Anbar, the first dive site away from Port Sudan. We can anchor there and dive the Jumna site in the afternoon and spend the night. Friday morning, we’ll move the Puss and Hoots to the deep water at Sei Ada Kebir, to place the mines.”

“Why Friday morning? Why don’t we do it after the second dive on Thursday?” Lou asks.

“We’re flexible and can change once we are on the mission.

I just remember spending a week in Port Sudan once while our boat was undergoing repairs on our return from working in 405

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Jeddah. Friday morning is the Muslim holy day, so everyone is off work and goes to the Mosque to pray. The Coast Guard office is sparsely manned. Once the engine room explosion is heard offshore, it will take time for the Coast Guard to mobilize and respond. That gives our crew time to get to Saudi territorial waters—and for you and me to get on our way before the big blasts.”

“Okay, it’s your call. I suggest we pack our passports, money, and other documents—and Limpets—in one of the waterproof diving bags and stow it on our boat when we go for our first dive Thursday afternoon.”

“Sounds like a good plan,” Frankie replies.

“What about a Mayday distress call? Should we send one out after the engine room explosion?”

“I don’t think so,” Lou says to Frankie. “We’ll be questioned about the sinking by the Sudanese Coast Guard and insurance people. Better that we agree to say that we only had time to collect a few personal things before having to abandon the vessel for our dive boat. I don’t think we should even bring an extra set of clothes, just what we have on, or it would appear too premeditated. There are coveralls in the dive boat we can use for a change of clothes.”

“Frankie, are the Semtex and detonators secure in the engine room?”

“The explosives have already been placed under the engine room floor with the hash. I just need to lift two floor plates that have the welds cut and insert the new timed detonators into the Semtex.”

“Looks like we’re good to go. I sent a telex to Sam telling him that we received the fruit and vegetables, so he can relax. I promised to let him know when we got the mines.”

Placing the box of Limpets and detonators in a closet, they securely lock the cabin, and retreat to the dining room where the two cousins have a quick breakfast and then withdraw to 406

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the lounge as the crew goes through all their pre-voyage duties.

A few hours later, the Puss and Hoots enters the Gulf of Aden towards the Gate of Lamentation, the strait entering the Red Sea. Sitting in the lounge of the ill-fated Puss and Hoots, Frankie, bored with reading, cajoles Lou into a conversation about their task at hand.

A bottle of scotch later, Frankie, not known for his philosophical discussions, starts probing Lou with questions about their Falconi family, namely Zio Fabio. Lou deflects the interrogation until Frankie asks, “Have you ever wondered why our uncle took the path he did? He’s smart, so it seems he could have gone in another direction and still been successful.”

Lou stares out the window of the salon, looking at the sea horizon. After a silent minute, he responds. “Frankie, you’re looking at it from the point of view of our generation. It’s different now than it was in the old days. Our grandfather Giuseppe had it very tough. Italian immigrants were looked down on—even the Irish were in a higher caste than Italians; and if you were a dark-complexioned Southern Italian or a Sicilian, you were even more of an outcast. Hell, just thirty years before our grandfather came to Louisiana, eleven Italians were lynched in New Orleans, the largest mass lynching in the American South.”

“Come on, Lou, our fathers and uncles have come a long way since our grandfather came to America.”

“Not that far. It’s a long slow road. Our fathers and uncles are too close to their roots—and they were still too poor as young men—to be able to totally distance themselves from their immigrant past through education and business success. So, the old timers did what they had to do to survive—they revived the social structures that existed in Italy and Sicily and were passed down through generations. When the Roman empire collapsed, so did the strong central government, but the wealthy Roman nobility, who had sovereignty over a town or village or a specific territory, survived. They developed their own systems 407

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of governing their territory similar to the structure of the Roman Legions. However, the leaders were no longer Roman emperors and generals but noblemen, the heads of wealthy families, and their empires became small city-states.”

“I studied about those, like the Pope in Rome, the Medici family in Florence, and the Doges in Venice, and other families in Milan and in Ferrara,” Frankie says.

“Exactly. They were the law, judge, and jury, with power over life and death; protectors of the people from outside invaders, funding their own armies; bankers and debt collectors; and they established social and medical services. Most importantly, they were guardians of the church, like the biggest nobleman of all, the Pope. The problem was that many of these noble families were not so noble. My father once told me that some noblemen in Sicily enforced the law of jus primae noctis, which translates as the ‘right of the first night’ where they believed their position gave them the right to sexual relations with a subordinate woman on her wedding night before she slept with their new husband.”

Lou paused. “As centuries passed, new noble families developed and others died out or were conquered by stronger ones who consolidated their hold, over larger areas.

“For the common man and the poor, nothing changed, so they took matters into their own hands and developed their own system to protect themselves from bureaucrats and people of power. Ironically, it was based on the same organization as the Roman Legions and noble families, only now the noblemen were the strongmen, unafraid to challenge the status quo. He became the protector of the common man from people of power and took care of their people, but insisted on total loyalty and respect. And their methods sometimes included coercion, physical intimidation, and fear, to control their domain. They called themselves ‘men of honor,’ but the people under their protection called them Mafia, or what the Kefauver committee called La Cosa Nostra.

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“For years these families operated covertly in Italy and Sicily until Giuseppe Garibaldi unified most of Italy and Sicily in 1861 under King Victor Emmanuel II. These multiple noble monarchies were united into one large monarchy until the Italian Republic was formed after WWII. Again, nothing changed for the common man and the poor, but in the chaos of forming a new country, the mafia families became strong enough to throw off their clandestine cloak and began operating openly. The heads of these families became the new nobility.”

“I’m impressed. You really did learn something at Harvard.”

Frankie grins.

Without hesitating, Lou, enjoying his role as history lecturer, continues, “In Sicily, our grandparents lived under that type of family hierarchy. This is what was developed here by Uncle Fabio and in all the other mafia families around America. The family controls the flow of power in the organization with a boss or Capo di Capo who has significant social status and influence in the organization. The role of the old nobleman.”

Frankie nods. “So, in our family, the nobleman is Uncle Fabio.”

“Right! And his main advisor, or consigliere, is Meyer Lansky; and the underbosses, known as the Caporegime, are our fathers and uncles. They, like the Roman legions, have a crew of soldiers. We know most of them as family, friends, or relatives, but these are the guys who handle the daily business for our uncles—such things as security, collections, and intimidation, if needed. Unfortunately, some of these soldiers also become hitmen or buttonmen, where loyalty and Omertà are paramount.

Some of the leg breaking and baseball-bat justice is given to what we call Associates, low level gangsters, many of whom are not of Italian blood.”

“It almost sounds like a Shaikhdom,” Frankie says.

“That’s not far off. The Shaikhdoms that operate on the Trucial Coast have a similar organization structure. Maybe they’re also 409

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derived from the old Roman and Noblemen structure. After all, the word mafia comes from a Sicilian-Arabic slang expression that means ‘acting as a protector against the arrogance of the powerful.’”

With a smile, Frankie takes a big slug of his beer. “Maybe if Uncle Fabio had been born in Arabia, he could’ve been a shaikh.”

“With our probable Moorish blood, anything could have been possible, but times are different, and our American family is different. Look at us, the third generation. Cousin Luca has a master’s degree in education; other cousins and friends are doctors, lawyers, politicians, professors, scientists, musicians and,” Lou says with a prideful sigh, “Harvard MBAs. Yet the yolk of prejudice has still not totally disappeared.”

Lou scratches his face and continues. “If we—you, Luca and me—and our second-generation cousins lay the right groundwork for our children, the next generation will be free of this burden. Who knows, maybe we’ll spawn a governor or a president even. If Joe Kennedy and his Irish Mafia could do it with his family, we can do it.”

“What’s the groundwork we need to do?”

“We need to be successful, legitimate businessmen and professionals—doctors, lawyers, educators—with no visible taint of the old ways.”

“We’re getting ready to blow up a fuckin’ boat and forty million dollars in narcotics. That sounds pretty tainted.”

Lou stands and laughs. “Like Uncle Fabio says, sometimes you gotta do the wrong things for the right reasons. Just don’t have any witnesses.”

Sitting up from his prone position on the sofa, Frankie is still not satisfied. “What I still don’t understand is how Uncle Fabio became so powerful with the other families. We’re in no way as big as most of them.”

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and public servants. This is where the synergism of Uncle Fabio’s intelligence and personality, and Meyer’s ability to covertly flow money to the right places, comes in. Our uncle was smart enough to see that even in America, power is in the hands of the noblemen, the local and state government officials, politicians of both parties. His infiltration into government and politics reached the highest levels in Louisiana and included some powerful modern-day noblemen. This enabled him to gain control of awarding contracts, changing public ordinances, and even changing laws, all to accommodate our family’s business.

Once he was able to infiltrate the federal government, his reach expanded exponentially. This gave him power with businessmen and other family organizations who looked to him as the fixer.

Our family is small, but we are allied with hundreds of other families who come to us for political favors. That gives us our power.”

Lou turns to face Frankie—who is again lying down on the sofa, now fast asleep. “So much for training my underboss,” he says aloud and heads for his cabin for an afternoon nap, or what his Arab friends call a qailulah. **** After sailing all day and night, the Puss and Hoots pulls into Port Sudan on Thursday noon, and Frankie and Lou meet the heads of customs and immigration, bearing gifts. Impressed with Lou’s Arabic and bargaining expertise, the four are soon on very friendly terms. Anchoring and diving permits are issued, and theirs and the crew’s passports are stamped. Upon leaving, envelopes of US banknotes are passed to new friends. After returning to the ship, they cruise to their first dive location and anchor for the night.

As required, Captain Antonio reports his coordinates to the Sudanese Coast Guard, so they can advise ships in the area to avoid the anchored vessel.

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With the stress of their task at hand, Frankie and Lou’s interest in diving has somewhat ebbed, but they follow the plan and make their first dive.

Soon after returning from the dive, a Sudanese Coast Guard vessel cruises close to the anchored yacht, slows down, and, with a bullhorn, requests permission to board.

Hearing this, Lou scrambles to his cabin to make sure the Limpets are well out of sight and to pull a few C-notes out of his stash and put them into an envelope. Quickly returning to the main deck, he tells the captain to grant permission.

With Frankie and Lou still in bathing suits and T-shirts, Captain Antonio cordially welcomes the Sudanese officer on board and offers him refreshments. Showing their permits, the officer is satisfied, but he is hesitant to leave. Lou then invites him on a tour of the Puss and Hoots. A half hour later, Frankie and Antonio hear raucous laughter as the two men return. The officer sports a bottle of Black Label and an envelope in his shirt pocket. Graciously apologizing for the inconvenience, and eager to open his bottle, he wishes them good diving and departs.

Once the Coast Guard boat leaves, Frankie approaches Lou. “You never cease to amaze me. The way you handled this guy—I think you’ve gone native.”

“Uncle Fabio always told me to know your enemies and treat them as you would treat your friends. If going native helps me to know them, I will go native.”

Sitting at the outside table on the back deck, Frankie and Lou discuss the unexpected visit. “I think we should move as quickly as possible and not wait until Friday morning. We can order Captain Antonio to relocate the ship to Sei Ada Kebir, farther away from Port Sudan this afternoon and into the deepest water in the Red Sea,” Frankie suggests.

“No reason to wait. Our plans have always been flexible. I agree, but what is the reason I give the captain?”

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“We didn’t think the diving was that great this morning and decided we want to dive in deep water where we can hunt big fish.”

“That sounds okay. How long will it take to move the yacht, Frankie?”

“Pulling anchor and other prep will take an hour, and the cruise will be about two hours. Three hours total. We can be there and anchor by five p.m.,” he replies.

“Let’s do it.”

On the bridge, Frankie informs Captain Antonio of the new plans and then leisurely asks about his new job, family, and concerns, as a good boss does.

“Once we anchor, tell the crew to prepare for a night dive at sunset about seven p.m. We’ll just dive around the Puss and Hoots and enter the water from the dive platform. We won’t need any crew to help us. They can have the night off after dinner.”

“Yes, Mr. Frankie. Anything else?”

“Yes, tell the kitchen to just cook for the crew. Lou and I will scavenge the refrigerator when we get hungry. By the way, don’t report our new position, but keep the necessary navigation lights on at night to warn passing ships of a static vessel. We can’t afford to hand out baksheesh to more Coast Guard officers.

These guys are pretty greedy.”

“Just like in my country.” Antonio laughs.

As the sun sets, the two divers don their gear and do a step entry from the dive platform. After their safety check, both head to the inflatable boat tethered to the cleat on the stern where Frankie reaches in and retrieves the small twenty-pound bag.

Together, they swim around to the starboard side of the hull.

As Lou holds the bag, Frankie removes one of the Limpets and places it on the hull with a faint clanging of metal hitting metal.

Removing a second mine, he installs it adjacent to the first, making the same noise. Rising above the waterline, Frankie uses his slate pencil and makes a dark X on the hull above where the mines are.

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Moving to the port side of the hull, they repeat the process and then swim back to the dive platform for a quick discussion before heading on their scheduled dive.

“What was the X mark for?” Lou asks.

“So, I can easily see where we placed the mines when I come back to set the timers. I can’t waste time once I insert the Semtex detonators and then sound the fire alarm in the engine room. I know the engine room is far away from the hull, but I’d feel more comfortable if I get the Limpet timers set before the Semtex explodes.”

Unhooking his flashlight from the shackle of his dive belt, he says to his partner, “Let’s just swim around under the ship blowing bubbles so it looks like we did a regular dive.” Reentering the water, they descend into the dark black abyss.

Holding up the flashlight under his chin to reflect on his face, like kids do, he reaches out and taps Lou on the shoulder.

Turning toward his cousin, Lou shudders. The underwater glow of the flashlight illuminates Frankie’s face, giving him the pale look of a drowning man. Quickly recovering from the anxiety-induced vision, Lou makes the sign of the cross and then lifts his gloved right-hand and gives Frankie the middle finger— diver’s sign for fuck you.

After thirty minutes of sucking air and mindlessly swimming around, Frankie checks his gauge and decides they have stayed long enough to simulate a deep dive and motions for Lou to ascend. Climbing on the dive platform, they put their gear and half empty dive bottles in the Zodiac.

After drying off, they don T-shirts and shorts and head to the galley for a sandwich. After eating, they walk to the crew quarters for a friendly visit and to make a mental head count. All except Captain Antonio, who’s in the pilothouse, are accounted for.

Back in the lounge, they again go over the details of the next steps. Looking at the beautiful decorations in the salon and 414

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dining room, Frankie comments, “What a shame—that full rack of expensive wines. Maybe we should take at least one bottle to celebrate after.”

“When we’re safely back in NOLA, I’ll buy us the best magnum of champagne money can buy. Business before pleasure. It’s almost ten. You ready?”

Frankie nods. “Remember, ten minutes after the fire alarm goes off, you need to order the captain to abandon ship. Once the Semtex timers are activated, I head for the water. “Ready?

Let’s go!”

As Frankie walks toward the engine room, Lou makes his way to the bridge.

Entering the wheel room, Lou greets the captain. “Good evening, Antonio.”

“Welcome, Mr. Lou. Unable to sleep? Can I get anything for you?”

“Nothing, thanks. Just too hyped from the day’s activities and that night dive. Thought I’d go for a stroll. I saw your lights on, so I just stopped to say hello.”

Meanwhile, Frankie lifts the heavy plates for access to insert and trigger the timers. He starts to reach for the fire alarm bell, then looks at his watch and hesitates. A few more minutes more, just to be safe. At 10:10 p.m. he presses the big red button, activating a screeching loud noise, and then quickly sets the Semtex timers for twenty minutes. Leaving the engine room, he closes and secures the metal door so no one can accidentally enter from outside.

Both the captain and Lou are startled when they hear the terrifying shrill. Looking at the ship’s console, the captain points to a red blinking light. “Looks like it’s coming from the engine room. I’ll get Raju down there to check.”

“That’s too dangerous. I think we should sound the Abandon Ship alarm and get all the crew safely on the lifeboat with their 415

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personal effects and documents. Once we know they are safe, Frankie and I will investigate.”

“I can join you,” responds Captain Antonio.

“No, you need to stay with your crew. Frankie and I can check things out and let you know if you can reboard. Once you and the crew are safely in the lifeboat, wait until we join you in our Zodiac.”

“Begging your pardon, sir. That’s not in line with maritime protocols for this type of emergency. If I don’t check the engine room, I should at least activate the engine room CO2/Halon fire extinguishing system.”

“Of course, then sound the alarm. That’s an order. Captain, my company owns the Puss and Hoots and, as the owner, my primary concern is the safety of you and the crew.”

With an inquisitive and confused look, the captain presses the alarm to abandon ship and then verbally announces over the intercom speakers for all crew to abandon ship.

Lou orders the captain to leave the bridge, to collect his personal effects and documents, and to supervise the safe evacuation.

Following Frankie’s training, the crew secure their personal effects and head for the deck to launch the lifeboat. Within fifteen minutes, the boat and crew are in the water moving away from the yacht as instructed, waiting for Lou and Frankie.

Once the captain leaves, Lou runs to the stern. Untying the Zodiac, he paddles to the front of the ship, looking for Frankie.

Seeing a head pop up he paddles toward him. With Lou’s help, Frankie pulls himself into the boat.

“Everything okay?” Lou asks. “All timers set. How much time before the Semtex blows?”

Looking at his dive watch, Frankie calculates, then responds, “Ten minutes. Is the crew off?”

“All of them are in the lifeboat. We didn’t anticipate the captain’s professional dedication to his training. I almost had to 416

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throw him off the boat. The only way I could get him to go was to let him activate the engine room fire extinguishing system and tell him that we would meet their lifeboat and together determine if we can reboard after waiting some time.”

“That cuts some time off their voyage to Saudi water, but it should be okay. The fire extinguisher is no match for the Semtex, so that’s not a problem.” Frankie starts the inflatable boat engine and cruises toward the lights of the lifeboat.

Drifting next to the lifejacketed crew, Frankie assures them they will probably be able to reboard soon and compliments them and the captain on following their training so well. “We need to move our lifeboats further away from the ship,” he orders.

Just as scheduled, the explosion from the engine room sends a shockwave ripple through the water, rocking the two boats, as flames start to rise above the stern deck.

“Captain, head east to Saudi waters just as we trained,” Frankie orders. “Lou and I will stay here and see how the Puss and Hoots fares. No time to lose—unless you prefer to be picked up by the Sudanese Coast Guard.”

“Yes, sir. We’ll see you in Saudi,” the captain says as his helmsman accelerates toward the Saudi Arabian coast.

The flames, now raging on the back deck, eerily light up the dark sky. Looking at Frankie, Lou says, “Fifteen more minutes until the mines activate. And then Nic’s toy will be no more.”

Patiently bobbing in their inflatable, Frankie and Lou wait for the next blast. Fifteen minutes and no explosion. Twenty minutes, still none.

“Shit, something is wrong. We need to go back and check the timers.”

“It’s too dangerous, Frankie. What if it goes off when you’re in the water next to the boat?”

“Just go. We’ve worked too hard to lose everything because of Nic. Here, take the engine and get me close to the hull,” Frankie orders as he anxiously grasps for air.

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“Frankie, you’re breathing too fast, calm down and breathe slowly.” Taking control, Lou races back toward the yacht.

Close to the hull, Frankie jumps in the water and swims the few feet toward the metal giant. Finding his X mark, he bends and free dives down, disappearing from view.

Two minutes later, Lou starts to panic and jumps into the water. Just at the water level of the mines, he sees Frankie floating face down lifelessly. Turning Frankie over onto his back, he puts his arms under his armpits and grabs him around his chest, pulling him to the surface only to see that their inflatable has floated about twenty yards away. Already winded, Lou starts swimming on his back, pulling Frankie towards the boat. Mentally and physically drained, Lou imagines he hears the sound of an outboard engine and then a splash.

Appearing in the water next to Lou is an alien-looking being covered in a hooded black nylon body suit donning scuba equipment. With the phantom diver’s help, they lift Frankie onto the craft. Another diver on the boat helps Lou aboard. Looking at the larger craft, he realizes that it is not his boat.

Turning to assist his cousin, he sees that he is already being tended to. The onboard diver has already placed a breathing face mask over Frankie’s mouth and nose. Looking at Lou, he says in broken English, “Oxygen. Shallow water blackout. It happens due to a lack of oxygen when breath holding or hyperventilating before going underwater.”

Lou remembers warning Frankie about his accelerated breathing. Watching and praying, Lou sees Frankie’s chest heave and then move up and down in a natural pattern.

A few minutes later, the first diver returns to the boat and easily climbs aboard. Speaking quickly to his partner in a foreign language, the boat immediately jerks away from the Puss and Hoots. Pulling alongside their abandoned Zodiac dive vessel, Lou is instructed to get anything of personal value he might need. Once reboarded with the two alien life savers, one 418

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of them tosses a softball size device into the dive boat and then speeds away. Soon a small explosion is heard, and the inflatable Zodiac is no longer inflated—actually, it no longer exists, except in small pieces floating on the water visible in the light of the still burning vessel.

As the driver accelerates, Lou starts to protest that he needs to go back to the ship. Slowing down, the two scuba men again converse in what Lou now recognizes as Hebrew.

Slowly turning toward the Puss and Hoots, the driver puts the boat in neutral. Within a minute, two loud explosions are heard. Almost like being on a Titanic lifeboat, Lou lifts Frankie’s head so both of them can see the bow slowly slip beneath the water and totally disappear. Smiling at each other he kisses his cousin’s cheek and then turns to the English-speaking diver, “Thank you both, my friends. That’s all we need to see.”

Without responding to the “my friends” comment, the rescuer explains to Lou, “My name’s Ephriam. Even though they seem simple, Limpets can have complications. In your case, setting two touching each other caused the timer signals to get confused and stopped detonation. My partner Levi was able to move them and reset the timers.”

An hour later they pull up to an Omani-flagged fishing trawler. Connecting the four cables hanging from the crane overhanging the trawlers deck to four rings on the boat, the driver gives a thumbs up and the fully laden rescue boat slowly rises and is stowed on deck.

Once aboard, Frankie and Lou are shown to the guest quarters and given dry clothes and their stash bag from the Zodiac. After a refreshing shower and change of clothes, they lie on bunk beds.

Arms folded behind his head and resting on the pillow, Frankie looks up at the bottom of Lou’s mattress. “I was out for a lot of what happened tonight. Can you fill me in?”

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Before Lou can respond, there is a knock on the door.

Leaping off the top bunk, Lou opens it and sees a familiar face.

“Wolfgang! I knew you had to be behind this. Thank you.”

“I thought you might be taking on a more difficult task than you anticipated, so we decided to keep an eye on you. Are you both up for a late dinner?” he asks.

At a table in the dining area, Wolfgang explains in his German-accented English that they will be taken to Salalah Port and put in the hands of the Omani Coast Guard. “The Seaman’s Center will assist you in getting proper immigration stamps and flights to Muscat and onward to Beirut, London, and New Orleans, home by the Fourth of July. I see from the contents of your waterproof bag that you have the financial means for your tickets,” he says with a broad smile.

“For the record, your dive boat was destroyed in the blasts caused by the engine room fire, and you were found floating in the water hanging on to debris from your dive boat and rescued by an Omani fishing trawler. Regarding the loss of the yacht, there will be a later report that pieces of an Egyptian mine were recovered near the site where the Puss and Hoots met its demise.

The mine was of the type placed in the Suez Canal during the war and must have broken loose, making its way down the Red Sea. Amazing odds that it would strike the hull of an anchored vessel. Unfortunately, unless you have warzone insurance coverage, you won’t collect the full value of the yacht.”

“Is there any way we can find out about our crew? They were heading toward Saudi waters.”

“Yes, there was radio chatter that the Saudi Coast Guard picked them up and are taking them to Jeddah.”

“Al hamdu lillaah,” a thankful Lou says.

“Oy Vey, you’ve become one of them, like our friend Patrick,” Wolfgang teases.

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Chapter 28 Independence Day Sunday July 2, 1967

The trip back to New Orleans from Muscat is a tiresome journey that requires overnight stops in Beirut and London. Still hyped from the events of the last few days, sleep only comes in spurts. Once in Beirut, rather than rest, the two cousins use the time to de-stress, hooking up with Frankie’s college friends and enjoying Beirut’s notorious nightlife.

After the events of the last week, Lou is in vacation mode and his only business is a brief meeting with Albert Abuzian at the Casino du Liban.

Entering the Casino, Lou is reminded of his dream for developing his Ras Al Khaimah casino venture into an international venue like Beirut or Vegas.

Greeting his guest at the entrance, Albert grabs Lou’s right hand and pulls him close to kiss him on the check. “Lou, so pleased to see you. After hearing of your harrowing adventure from Nic, I was excited to have you honor me with a visit.”

“You know I could never come through town without seeing you. Meyer and my Uncle Fabio would chastise me for being disrespectful to such a close friend of the family.”

“It’s a shame about Nic’s yacht. I told him to keep it in Cannes or here in Beirut, but he insisted on taking it to the Gulf.”

Lou’s pride insists he set the record straight. “It was really a company yacht for entertaining clients, but Nic treated it as his own.”

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“Of course. That’s just his way. He called me on Sunday from Messina in Sicily. When the yacht didn’t arrive for its scheduled maintenance, he said he checked with his office in Dubai, and they had just received news of what happened.”

“I haven’t had a chance to talk to him. Did he say if he was returning to Dubai?”

“He said he would be coming back through Beirut in a couple of days and then on to Tehran for meetings.”

Lou is curious as to why Tehran, since MOMS has no business interest there, but doesn’t pursue the subject. Something to check on once back in NOLA, he thinks and files the information in the back of his mind.

After an hour, Lou returns to the hotel to collect Frankie for their flight to London.

Arriving early Monday morning, they stay at an airport hotel to rest before their late afternoon flight to New York and on to Louisiana.

When they land in New Orleans, Lou is proud he’s keeping his promise to Momma to be home for the family’s Fourth of July picnic later that afternoon. **** Tuesday July 4, 1967

The picnic, on the expansive grounds of the Beverly Country Club, is an invitation only affair. After a few hours of sleep at Lou’s apartment, Frankie and Lou arrive together and congregate in the private area reserved for immediate family before having to mix and schmooze in the general picnic area with the families of politicians, government officials, and business associates.

Like a good Italian son, he first seeks out Momma and gives her his normal hug and twirl, making her giggle like a little girl.

After greeting aunts and uncles, Lou begins catching up with his 422

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cousins and is introduced to a couple of new family members born while he was away. Holding the tiny finger of his nephew and his wife’s new baby, Angelo Falconi, he looks at the child.

Maybe this one will be our President.

Fulfilling his obligations to Uncle Fabio, he goes out to join the crowd of guests gathered around the large fire pits of roasting pigs, sides of beef, and pots of seafood gumbo and crawfish étouffée.

Making his rounds, he greets the chiefs of the police and fire departments, as well as Mayor Schiro and Congressman Boggs before making his way to Governor McKeithen.

Glad to be done with the political side of business, he retreats to the table reserved for his family that is now occupied by his father and mother.

Everything seems anticlimactic after his recent experiences, and by sundown he’s ready to retreat to his apartment. Just as Lou contemplates excusing himself for the night, Uncle Fabio sits next to him.

Putting his strong hand on the back of Lou’s neck, he massages softly. “Mio Nipoti, how are you doing? We haven’t had time to talk about details of the yacht situation. Meyer filled me in on what his friend in Israel told him about the yacht, but we need to sit and talk. Have you rested?”

“Yes, Zio. I’m feeling great. Whenever you’re ready.”

“After the fireworks, we can sit in my private room in the club.”

“It might be helpful if we have Frankie there.”

Bending over, he whispers in Lou’s ear, “No, this is just between us Capos for now.”

Looking at his uncle with a surprised look, Lou remains speechless.

“Yes, it’s time we need to discuss that, amongst many other things. We can sit together after the fireworks tonight.”

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Like everything Uncle Fabio does, the fireworks are spectacular and very expensive, overshadowing those in downtown New Orleans. Fathers drove miles to Metairie to park outside the club so their families could watch the annual display.

After the pyrotechnics finale, which is set to Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture, the crowd slowly disperses. Lou makes his rounds, saying goodbye to family and lastly his parents, then goes inside to find his uncle sitting at the bar. Walking together to his private room, Fabio taps in the code on the door lock and both enter. Fabio directs him to sit in the chair that Lou remembers his Jewish Godfather occupied the last time he was in the room.

“First, I want to know everything.”

For the next ninety minutes, Lou explains in detail what has transpired since Pat Riley warned about the drugs, including Shaikh Mohammed’s involvement.

Listening to Lou’s details about disposing of the drugs and the Puss and Hoots, Fabio interrupts and remarks, “That was quite expensive, sinking a three-million-dollar boat.”

“Not as expensive as what Mohammed would have done to all of our assets if the situation didn’t go away,” Lou replies.

Fabio continues listening in silence until Lou completes the narrative. “It seems certain that both you and the young shaikh believe Nic and Majid are involved and may be partners in this dirty business. I personally told Nic no side business and no drugs.” Becoming more bellicose, Fabio raises his tone, “Where is that piece of shit Pezzonovante?”

“I hear he’s in Tehran, maybe even with Majid. I can check on that tomorrow. Zio, Shaikh Mohammed made it clear that we are to deal with Nic and that he will deal with Majid. At this point, I don’t think Nic is aware we’re on to him. As far as he knows, it was just an unfortunate accident that sent the yacht to the bottom.

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“Mohammed seems to be in no hurry to deal with Majid, so I’d like to give Nic a little more rope before we put it around his neck. I don’t believe drugs are all he’s involved in. Let me and my team—and Shaikh Mohammed—see if we can uncover anything else.”

Looking anxious, Fabio warns, “I worry this could get out among the families. If they see we’re not taking care of business, they will push us out.”

“That’s exactly why I couldn’t call or telex. Too many ears and eyes. Right now, only our family, Shaikh Mohammed, our Israeli friends, and Pat know what really happened to the Puss and Hoots. As promised to Shaikh Mohammed, we’ve taken care of the drug situation. We have more than six weeks before Shaikh Mohammed’s deadline. I’ll cut my holiday short and head back to Dubai this week. If we can clean up this mess before September first, we will have a relationship with Shaikh Mohammed that will ensure our success indefinitely.”

“I trust your judgement on this. You’re the man on the ground and have the best feel of the situation. But before you leave, I want to announce your promotion to Caporegime. It will give you the credibility and authority to make your own decisions, an independent boss. Your domain is all our international business.

It’s all agreed with Meyer and the family. You now have the same status as your father and uncles. We’ll have the ceremony this coming Saturday, then you can leave for Dubai. Meyer will fly in from Miami for the investiture.”

Getting up from his chair, Lou gets down on one knee and grasps his uncle’s left hand, kissing his ring. “I swear my loyalty to you, Zio.” “You can call me Rocky,” he says, smiling, and gently pats Lou on the head, “No need for that. Times have changed. We don’t do those archaic rituals anymore. No pricked fingers, no blood on a religious card and burning it. With the new generation of family leadership like you and Frankie, we’re trying to evolve 425

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into a modern corporate business with rules and guidelines. We are traders and distributors of tomatoes, olive oil, and other food stuff—green grocers, but on a corporate scale.”

Getting up from his chair, Fabio walks to the back of the room and opens a desk drawer and removes a small folder.

Inside, he pulls out a small plastic laminated card and hands it to Lou. “You will read this in front of all the male members of the family on Saturday.”

Lou glances at the card and puts it inside his shirt pocket.

“Come to the Gretna warehouse office tomorrow afternoon at four. Go home and get some rest. You look exhausted.” **** Entering the front door of the NOLA Vending Company, Lou is immediately met by the head of security, Tommy Stringbean Fagioli. “Lou, good to see you. I hear a lot of good things about you.”

“Tommy, it’s good to see you too. It’s been a long time since I was last here. How is the family?”

“Just great. My oldest son graduated from high school this year. Thanks to your uncle’s recommendation, he got a full scholarship to LSU. Imagine, his ol’ man never graduated from high school. I quit so I could work to help my widowed mom raise my brothers, and now my son is going to university.”

“That’s wonderful. Just the way it’s supposed to be. Does he know what he wants to study?

“He wants to be a businessman just like you.”

“After he graduates, tell your son to come see me. Is my uncle here yet?”

“Ya, he’s in the office. Go on in.”

Opening the door, Lou sees Uncle Fabio and Uncle Giuseppe, Frankie’s dad, sitting and having a drink. Bending down, he gives each a semi-hug and kiss on the cheek. “Is Frankie around?” he asks Uncle Giuseppe.

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“What did you do to my boy on your trip home? He’s exhausted. When I left home, he was still sleeping.”

“We had a tiring trip, Uncle, but from what I saw at the picnic, I’d say he was showing a lot of pride in celebrating being an American. He must have danced with every girl there. The ones he missed, his brother Vincent didn’t. Quite the boys you have. You know Frankie is my right hand in Dubai, right?”

Blushing with paternal pride, Uncle Giuseppe stands and gives Luigi a big hug. “Grazie, thank you for taking care of him.

He’s become a good man.”

“I spoke to Meyer earlier; he’s coming in on Thursday. It seems he has some information we all need to discuss face-toface,” Uncle Fabio says.

“Come on, you two,” Uncle Giuseppe coaxes. “We’re set up to play Brisca in the warehouse. You’re the sixth player at my table, Lou.” Having never played the sacred Italian card game with any of his uncles or other family members, Lou feels anxious as he enters the warehouse and recalls the Gretna Gulf Coast Conference more than two years ago. So much has happened since then.

Seeing Luigi come in, the players and observers all stand and break into a cacophony of various Italian “pisano” and “cumba” greetings mixed with English terms of endearment. One by one, they walk up to him and give the traditional hug and cheek kiss—first his Uncles Vincenzo and Andrea, and even his father Paolo. Then, almost like a family reunion, cousins Salvatore, Anthony, and Joseph, followed by a line of family friends— Anthony Barlotta, Little Jimmy Campo, Sam Domino, Frank Gagliano—almost an endless line of soldiers and associates.

Finally finishing the greetings, Luigi is directed to one of the tables. “Hey, fellas. It’s been a long time since I played, and I may need some help with the rules.”

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“Don’t worry, boss, we’ll help you remember,” his tablemate Little Jimmy offers.

Hearing the term boss, it dawns on Lou. This invitation to play cards is a part of my initiation, a welcoming to the inner sanctum.

For the next few hours, Lou is treated like an Italian aristocrat.

“Can I get you a drink? Let me get you a plate of food. Is your chair comfortable?”

Taking a break for a quick pee, Lou looks over his shoulder making sure no one has come into the bathroom behind him wanting to hold his pene for him while he pissed.

By eight, Lou has the game rules down pat and is the big winner of the afternoon. Smart enough to know the crew let him win as their way of paying homage to him, he gallantly puts up with being called a ringer, a con, a charlatan, and other names in Italian by the family.

As each of the crew head home to their family dinner, Lou and his father do the same. **** Saturday, July 8, 1967

The program for Luigi’s swearing-in as Caporegime is a quiet affair at the home of the Capo di tutti Capi. All of his uncles, Meyer Lansky, and other high ranking family members attend. All the rest of the crew have already paid their respects at the card game on Tuesday.

After a homecooked meal by Zia Maria and his other aunts, Uncle Fabio stands at the head of the table and gently taps his knife on the crystal wine glass.

“Gentlemen, we are here tonight to honor one of the youngest members of our family to be promoted to the position of Caporegime, Luigi Paolo Falconi. Luigi, please come forward.”

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A nervous but excited Lou joins the Capo di tutti Capo at the head of the table.

“Today you are an underboss, carrying out the wishes of the family bosses. Tonight, you become a Capo, entitled to your own territory and autonomy over your domain. That sovereignty is governed by The Rule of Seven and is subject to the ultimate authority of the Family Council, of which you are soon to be a member. Please read from the card you were given by me.”

Lou looks around the table and reaches for the card inside his coat pocket. Feeling nothing, he drops his hands into the outside pockets and again no card. Looking at the anxious guests, he begins to recite the seven rules without the card he had briefly looked at earlier.

THE RULE OF SEVEN 1. THE FAMILY IS SACROSANCT 2. OMERTÀ – SILENCE IN ALL MATTERS OF THE FAMILY. a. There is no hope for he who violates this oath.

3. BUSINESS IS ALWAYS FIRST a. The interest of the Family is above individual interests. b. Be rational in your business.

4. BE LOYAL TO MEMBERS OF YOUR FAMILY a. Respect the members of other families. b. Do not interfere with each other’s territory or business interests.

5. BE A MAN OF HONOR a. Respect womanhood and your elders. b. Never violate the wife or children of another member. c. Never become involved with narcotics or other poisoned business.

6. SHOW COURAGE AND COMPASSION a. Do not complain in the face of adversity or suffering.

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To the amazement of the other Capos and family members, he completes his recitation from memory, flawlessly.

Still seated at the table, Uncle Fabio reaches for an uncut loaf of bread on the table and proceeds to break off equal size pieces, passing them down the table to each of his tablemates, keeping a larger piece in front of him.

As if he were a priest at Sunday mass, with both hands, Uncle Fabio picks up his piece of bread and raises it above his head.

“Gentlemen, this bread represents any deal that your position allows you to pursue—within the guidelines of the family Rule of Seven. Just remember that everyone shares equally in these opportunities, with only one larger piece going as tribute to the Head of the Family.”

Putting the bread back down, Uncle Fabio reaches across his dinner plate for the Baccarat crystal glass filled with a deep red wine and stands. Lifting the glass, he continues, “A toast to our fathers, grandfathers, uncles, and brothers who have spilled their blood in keeping the Rule of Seven. Salute!”

As the sounds of responding Salutes echo from his tablemates, the symbolism of the Last Supper is not lost on Lou, who sarcastically wonders if his uncle believes he’s the new savior of the world, offering communion to his followers.

Rising from his throne at the head of the table, the Capo di tutti Capi walks to the buffet cabinet at the side of the room and picks up a book. “In our family, this book represents the values and ethics our father wished to instill in his sons and daughters and later generations of his family.” He turns to Lou. “As your father and uncles know, this was the first book ever purchased by your grandfather, Giuseppe. Even though he couldn’t read Italian or English, he bought this with the dream that someday his children would be able to read it. All of my brothers and I have read it many times. Unknown to our grandfather, this book encourages standards of morality and society, and emphasizes hard work and an independent spirit; it encourages an allegiance 430

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to our adopted country, and an understanding of the importance of religious and family values. Like the ancient books such as the Bible, Koran, or Torah, this book also teaches the same ethics, and so it is fitting that, as a modern American family, we swear an oath of allegiance on the family’s first book. Will your patron, your father Paolo, please come forward.”

Paolo, who is holding the book, rises from his chair and stands next to Luigi. “Place your right hand on this sacred family tome and repeat after me. ‘I, Luigi Paolo Falconi, swear to abide by the Rule of Seven and the decisions of the Falconi Family Council in all matters relating to the business of the family, and to give my life and fortune to ensure that all future endeavors of the family are with the goal of making this and all future generations productive and respected members of society.’”

Without looking at the book, Lou places his right hand on it and repeats the oath. When he finishes, Uncle Fabio announces, “You are now the head of your domain and are to be referred to as Don Luigi.”

With that, his father gives him a big hug and kiss on both cheeks. Next, Meyer Lansky does the same as the guests line up to congratulate the new Capo. Finally, reseated at the table, the first toast of many is offered by his fellow Capos. By the time each guest offers his toast, Don Luigi is on a Chianti high.

By midnight, Uncle Fabio announces he is retiring for the night and the other guests follow, heading home to their family or for an outing with their crew to continue celebrating.

Sitting alone, Lou feels a flow of emotions—love, hate, elation, shame, first a low and then a high and again low. Am I doing the right thing? Is this who I am and want to be? Lou couldn’t understand the conflict of emotions. No prick of blood, no burning of Saint Isidore’s, the patron of laborers, holy card. Except for the priest analogy, Uncle Fabio acted like any Chairman and CEO who just asked his newest executive for loyalty and dedication to the corporation. Standing too quickly, 431

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he grabs the back of the chair to steady himself. Slowly walking to the buffet, he reaches for the book he just sworn an oath on and turns it over, expecting to see the words Family Bible written on the cover.

With an incredulous look, he reads the title aloud, “McGuffey’s First Eclectic Reader.” His loud, ha, ha, ha laugh echoes throughout the empty room. “God Bless Grandpa Giuseppe,” Lou bellows in a sarcastic tone to the empty room, “Wouldn’t he be surprised to see how his dreams for his family turned out?”

Hearing the noise in the dining room, Zia Maria enters and sees her nephew is in a highly inebriated state. “Come, you stay here tonight,” she says and guides him to a guest bedroom. Just like she would do for her own son, she helps Luigi undress and tucks him into bed. **** The resins from the red wine give Lou a splitting morning headache. Looking around, he realizes he’s not in his apartment, rises, and opens the curtain to see the sun just starting to break.

In the bathroom, he brushes his teeth with toothpaste on his index finger and then showers. Dressing in his smoke and boozesmelling shirt and pants, he carries his shoes in his hands and exits the bedroom. He realizes he’s still in his aunt and uncle’s house, and tiptoes down the stairs trying not to wake anyone. At the foot of the stairway, his uncle calls out, “Buongiorno, Don Luigi, Venga qui, Dominica Prima Colazione. Come join me.

Everyone has gone to Sunday morning mass. We’re all alone this beautiful morning. Your Zia told me she made you stay here last night. She always has made good decisions. She’s my real Consigliere—don’t tell Meyer I said that.”

“I hope I didn’t do anything to embarrass you last night, Zio?”

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“Not at all. You impressed all of us, especially by reciting from memory The Rule of Seven. What time is your momma’s Sunday lunch?”

“Usually about two.”

“We need to sit with Meyer today. You both leave tomorrow, and we need to talk. He has some information that may help you on your quest with the shaikh, and for you personally. We can meet later in the morning or this evening after dinner.”

“We usually finish about six. If it’s okay with you and Meyer, can we meet after?”

“That’s good, we do the same here. Meyer will be here for lunch, so come by at six-thirty.

Mangiamo, let’s eat!” **** Having to say goodbye to his family—especially his younger sisters, Christina and Maria—is always difficult, but for Momma, it’s like sending her little boy off to war. In a way, she’s right. Poppa understands, even though he doesn’t like the idea of his only son being so far from home. Hopefully, once the business in Dubai is in order, he can bring his parents for a visit. The winter months in Dubai are lovely and the cultural sightseeing phenomenal.

Finally breaking from the hugs and kisses, Lou leaves and makes his way back to Uncle Fabio’s.

As soon as he enters the front door, Zia Maria tries to entice him to eat. “Come in. I’ll fix you a plate and bring it in to your uncle’s office for you.”

Knowing it is futile to argue, he leaves her to her loving task, then says a quick hello to his cousins and disappears into the office.

Even with Lou’s new status, Meyer has no obligation to get up from his chair, as his position in the chain of command is much higher than Lou’s. And age always deserved respect.

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Showing that respect, Luigi bends down and kisses him on the cheek and then goes over to his uncle to do the same.

As he takes the empty seat next to Lansky, there’s a gentle tap on the door and Zia Maria enters with a giant plate of ravioli, meatballs, and other Italian specialties. Setting the plate and utensils on the coffee table next to Lou, she smiles and exits without saying a word.

Meyer and Uncle Fabio smile at Luigi. “Don’t worry, take a bite of each. She forgets we all have a big family lunch on Sunday.” Fabio hands his nephew a paper bag, “You can put the rest in here later, making it look like you cleaned your plate, and I’ll throw it out later.”

“Luigi, your uncle has filled me in on everything you’ve told him. Has anything else developed since you’ve been back?”

“Actually, yes. Before going to lunch, I received a call at my apartment from Tony Conetti. He’s in London with his brother Carl, our lawyer there. He received a call from my partner in the Ten Tola, Sam Sweeney. It was a bit cryptic, but I was able to figure it out. Shaikh Mohammed is back in the UK and wants me to come and see him. When I get to London, Tony will have all of the details on how to contact him.”

“Is that good or bad?” asks Meyer.

“I have to look at it as good. I think he heard of the sinking of the Puss and Hoots and wants details. Maybe the fact that I fulfilled my first obligation will take the pressure off and we can get more time from Mohammed.”

“Good, good,” mutters Meyer, while Fabio stays silent.

“Any word from Nic?” Luigi asks.

“All we know is that Albert confirmed he came through Beirut on his way to Tehran. As far as we know, he’s still there.”

“Luigi,” Uncle Fabio says urgently, “Albert told Meyer that Nic has the knives out for you and would like it better if you were gone. You need to be careful.”

“Do you think he’s on to what Frankie and I did?”

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“If he is, he didn’t tell Albert,” Meyer replies. “I think Nic’s ego doesn’t like being number two in Dubai, and he’s jealous of the relationships you have there, along with your bar and casino businesses. Now that you’re a Don, he’ll be even more envious.”

“He knows the casino is a family business. My share of the Ten Tola also belongs to the inside family, as far as I’m concerned.”

“We know, but his kind of jealousy grows into resentment.

He can be hot headed. We want one of our soldiers to go back with you and stay with you in Dubai. He can be a bouncer at the bar, drive for you, and watch your back. Just the optics might make Nic think twice,” Uncle Fabio says.

“No, I’ve got Frankie and my partner Sam. We watch out for each other. And if I find I need muscle, Sam has contacts and can find someone. I like keeping a low profile there. Having someone around me all the time is not low profile.”

“Okay, you’re the boss there. But I’ll be coming out when you spud that oil well at the beginning of September if you’re still on schedule. I’ll have a couple of the boys with me just in case you change your mind,” Meyer offers.

Lou, always one to question motives, responds, “You’re always welcome to visit, but even in September the heat can be stifling.”

“Hell, not much different than Vegas in the summer. I need to meet with Majid, and I’ll stop on my way to see Toufiq Abdul Kazim at his place in Monte Carlo. Albert Abuzian is flying in so we can visit the casino in Ras Al Khaimah, and then we’ll fly back to Beirut together.”

“We have some issues with the La Rouche boys and Canuck Petroleum,” Luigi says.

“Don Luigi,” an irritated Meyer chastises, “I need to know these things. If Majid asks questions when we meet, I want to be able to talk like I know what’s going on. Remember, he’s the one that brought them into the deal.”

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“They’re operational and political issues with the Iranians, so I haven’t bothered you about them, and Majid is aware. The Iranian situation is a bit complicated, but I’ll fill you in best I can.”

After explaining the politics with Bahrain and the Abu Musa and Tunb Islands, Lou takes the next hour describing the difficulties with the drilling program delays caused by Iran and his fast-track plan to drill by the end of the year. He also divulges their oil seep discovery and his idea of converting the present concession to the Musandam if the Brits support the Iranian claims that would include their present concession area.

Trying to convince them that everything is under control, he redirects the discussions to his concern about Scotty La Rouche.

He explains how he has been using the entry to the Trucial States that the Family has provided to get a concession in Abu Dhabi, and rumors that he and La Rouche are talking to Iran about an offshore concession.

Always thinking in numbers, Mayer asks, “Do we have any financial recourse?”

“Our London lawyer feels we could have a claim against the British Government if Iran takes over, but it would take time to collect. If the Iranians stop us from drilling, we can declare force majeure. That would put a hold on all work and payments to Ras Al Khaimah until the political situation is settled. That’s not good for anyone.”

“I’ll put this on my agenda with Majid,” Meyer says.

“And with Toufiq, when you see him in Monte Carlo,” adds Luigi.

“We need to be careful about what we reveal to Majid.

Remember what Shaikh Mohammed said about his involvement with Nic in the drugs smuggling, and perhaps other ventures.”

Meyer and Fabio sit quietly as they absorb the information just revealed.

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Changing subjects, Meyer addresses Luigi, “You need to do something about your long-distance communications problems and get a secure line in Dubai. Is there any way you can payoff someone at the local phone company?”

“The government owns the national telephone company, and they’re the ones who’ve tapped our phones for Majid or whomever, so we’ve had to look for outside technology. Sam has been able to procure a system that the US military is using in Vietnam that can scramble calls to anyone tapped in. Hopefully, it will be installed when I get back later this week, so we’ll be able to communicate more often.”

Finally, Uncle Fabio asks, “When is Frankie due back in Dubai?”

“He’s cutting his holiday short and will join me in a couple of weeks.”

Changing to small talk, a smiling Meyer asks, “Have you found yourself a lady to keep you company out there? You know you’re allowed to have an entire harem in Dubai.”

“I’ve dated a couple of girls and have one special one.”

“Unless she’s Italian, don’t tell your momma,” Uncle Fabio advises only half joking.

“Let me give you some advice,” Meyer offers, “I get a blow job every day. You know the old saying, if you don’t use it, you lose it. Plus, it prevents prostate cancer.”

Chuckling, Fabio mocks, “Now you’re Doctor Lansky.”

“No, no, it’s been scientifically proven that ejaculating daily keeps the prostate from getting enlarged and causing cancer.”

Uncle Fabio stands. “I would have liked to be a part of that study. Come on, Meyer, we have things to do. This meeting is finito.”

“Please be careful, Luigi, and take care of yourself. Let me know as soon as you arrive back in Dubai. Buon Viaggio!”

Giving the expected hugs and kisses, the three depart.

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Chapter 29 The Two Princes Monday, July 10, 1967

Arriving early afternoon at the London airport, Lou takes a cab directly to Tony Conetti’s office to collect the message from Sam regarding his meeting with Shaikh Mohammed.

Ringing the bell at the Conetti & Shire Law Offices, Lou is surprised when Carl answers rather than his receptionist. After shaking hands, Carl takes Lou’s single valise and carries it inside to the conference room.

“Cutting on overhead and doing the reception job too,” Lou teases.

“She’s off for some sandwiches. We weren’t sure what time you’d arrive, but figured you’d like a ham and cheese when you got here.”

Pointing to the envelope on the conference table, Carl tells Lou, “Here’s the information Sam sent.”

Opening the envelope, Lou finds a sheet of paper with a London phone number and an address in Hampshire. Handing the paper to Carl, he asks, “How long will it take me to get to this address?”

“About ninety minutes by car, not much difference by train.

Hampshire is close to Aldershot where the Mons Officer Cadet School-Aldershot Military School is located.”

“Can I use the phone in your office?”

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“Sure, help yourself. Press one for an outside line.”

Shutting the door behind him, Lou sits at Carl’s desk. He dials the number, which is picked up on the third ring by a woman speaking Arabic.

In his colloquial Arabic, Lou asks, “Shaikh Mohammed mawjood. Is Shaikh Mohammed available? Ismi Lou, sadik, this is his friend, Lou.” “Min fadlik antazir, please wait.”

Almost immediately Lou hears, “Na’am.”

“Mohammed, this is Lou Falconi. I just arrived in London.”

“Can you come to me in two hours?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Thank y—” The line disconnects, cutting off the word you.

Joining Carl, Lou explains his change in plans.

“Why don’t I drive you? We can talk business while eating our lunch that just arrived.”

“Are you sure you can break away from the office? It could take all day.”

“I’ve blocked all afternoon for you. I’ll only charge my normal hourly rate and nothing for petrol,” Carl says with a laugh.

Gathering their lunches, briefcases, and luggage, they traipse out the back door to the lane where Carl’s Jaguar is parked.

Before long, they leave the city and are cruising down the M3, eating their ham and cheese, and discussing Canuck Petroleum.

Just before exiting the M3, Carl pulls off to a petrol station to ask directions. Re-entering the Jag, he announces, “It’s about twenty minutes down the next road to the right.” Soon they reach the start of an eight-foot-high stone wall and, after driving alongside for about ten miles, reach a small lane. Turning onto the lane, they see an ornate double iron gate entrance leading to the inside of the wall. Slowly approaching the guard house, Carl rolls down his window and addresses the uniformed guard. “Mr. Lou Falconi for Shaikh Mohammed.”

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“Which of you is Mr. Falconi?” the English security guard asks.

Carl points to his passenger.

“One moment, sir.”

From the car, they watch as he picks up the phone and talks for a brief moment. Returning to the car, he advises Lou that his driver will need to wait in the parking area outside the gate after he drops him at the entrance.

Before Lou can protest, Carl interrupts. “That will be fine,” and starts driving back toward the gated entrance.

A mile down the road, they reach an elaborate old English Manor house with large wooden doors. Standing outside is a man dressed in a traditional Arab robe with no headscarf. Lou exits the car and thanks Carl. “I should be about two hours,” he guesses. Turning toward the man receiving him, Lou now recognizes his dive mate, Dhahi Sadek Taweel.

“Dhahi, so nice to see you. I didn’t think you’d be coming to England with His Highness.”

“Lou, sadiqi, welcome. I’m only here for a brief time. Come in. Mohammed is waiting.”

Entering the elaborately decorated hall, Dhahi guides Lou to an equally elaborate office. Standing behind an intricately carved desk, Mohammed welcomes Lou. “Please be seated.”

“What a beautiful home,” Lou comments.

“Yes, my father’s first investment in UK real estate. He bought it a few years ago anticipating my eventual schooling and military training in England.”

Lou and Dhahi sit in the high-backed chairs facing Mohammed.

“Congratulations,” Mohammed continues. “I heard all the details of the sinking of your company’s yacht. What a pity,” he says sarcastically and with a big grin. “She was a magnificent vessel. In such deep water, what a shame. Dhahi tells me there is no chance of salvaging anything.”

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Lou rests his left elbow on the chair arm and looks down at the floor, cradling his forehead in his cupped fingers. Unable to hold in all of the emotions and physical stress that has welled up inside him in the last weeks, he raises his head and breaks into riotous laughter. The infectious sound soon has Mohammed and Dhahi also laughing. After composing himself, Lou says, “Sorry, but it’s been an emotionally stressful week.” Trying to compose himself but with tears of laughter still running down his face, he gets out the words, “Not much left of the Puss and Hoots to salvage. She was blown apart with Semtex and Limpet mines.”

“Sounds like you had a very good and professional team to carry out such an elaborate plan.”

“My cousin Frankie, my partner Sam, and I did the planning and, with the help of a few friends, procurement. Frankie and I carried out the dastardly deed. There is no doubt we’ve put an end to that dirty business.”

“I’m impressed and pleased that you have kept such a difficult promise to me at such financial expense to your family.

Thank you. Sometimes I would like to hear details as to how you pulled off such a challenging task.”

“Of course, Your Highness. Unfortunately, in our planning to alleviate this problem, we have uncovered other problems for my family regarding Nic Nicandro and perhaps Majid. It seems that Nic feels I’m a thorn in his side.”

The coffee boy enters with his pelican flask, followed by the tea boy with the mint chai and shortbread biscuits. Taking a break from the conversation, the traditional coffee is poured and tea served.

After the servers depart, Mohmmed resumes. “Regarding Nic, that is one reason I wanted to see you. Have you ever heard of the Order of Assassins, or, in Arabic, Hashashins? The word assassin actually derived from them. They covertly murdered Muslim and Christian leaders who were considered enemies of 441

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their sect of Shi’ite Islam in Persia and Syria. Supposedly, they died out seven hundred years ago, but our folklore believes that they still secretly exist. In reality, what remains is a group of mercenaries who have taken on their name and their preferred methods of killing by dagger or nerve poison or arrows. The arrows have given way to guns and automatic rifles. Basically, they are just a band of soldiers of fortune for hire.

“You may recall in our conversation during the diving trip I mentioned that the Dubai Police have been expanding the Crime Investigation Department, the CID. This involves agents on the ground in the Gulf and other countries. Dhahi has been training with them. It seems that one of our agents in Iran has infiltrated one of these so-called Hashashins cells of mercenaries. An American who fits Nic’s description hired them to eliminate a rival and is paying big money for it. Unfortunately, the name of the person he wants eliminated is Luigi Paolo Falconi, and the photo looks very much like you. In other words, my friend, as you would say in New Orleans, there’s a hit out on you.”

Lou has been expecting Nic to eventually act on his animosity towards him as the information from Meyer confirmed, but actually hearing that he’s hired Iranian assassins sends a shiver up and down his spine.

“I was told that Nic was not pleased with me, but I didn’t realize it had gone this far already. I was preparing for this in case he finds out who was responsible for sinking his fortymillion-dollar stash. I don’t believe he knows I was behind it yet, so I guess he just really doesn’t like me.”

“We even know of the name of the would-be assassin assigned to the job. They recruited a Jordanian Palestinian named Sirḥān Bišāra Sirḥān. I can arrange to put an end to both him and Nic right now if you wish.”

“Not yet. I know Nic’s involved in some other nasty schemes, and I would like some time to put an end to them before they hurt our business relations in the Trucial States. Something is 442

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going on with Iran and the oil concession in Ras Al Khaimah. I really want Shaikh Saqr to succeed with this venture, and I want to make sure whatever Nic has planned doesn’t happen.”

“Once Nic’s gone, so will be those problems,” offers Mohammed.

“He has partners with enough power to continue. I need to cut the head off the snake. I just need time to make sure that Nic is the snake. You’ve given me until September first. Can you give me until the end of November? With the drug problem eliminated, Dubai is immune to whatever else Nic is planning,” pleads Lou. “I’ll grant the extension you request to deal with Nic. You’re also going to need the extra time to deal with the concession in Ras Al Khaimah sooner rather than later. I’m sure you’ve read or heard about the Shah’s plan for giving up Iran’s claim in Bahrain for the right to annex Abu Musa and the Tunb islands.”

“Yes, but excuse me, Your Highness, that may be two years away. By then, we will have completed two wells and maybe even be in production. Iran will have to give us compensation.”

In an agitated tone, Shaikh Mohammed replies, “Listen, Lou, this is not Europe or the USA. The concept of time is different in the Middle East. You will never get that well drilled.”

“Yes, we will. It may not happen for a year or two, but it will happen.”

“Things change. What is fact today may not be fact tomorrow.

The universe is not static—it’s dynamic and continues to evolve, whether we like it or not. It is the way Allah created it. In order to deal with its fluid nature, we need to have an anchor to keep us balanced.”

“What’s your anchor, Your Highness?”

“We Muslims are blessed to have Islam as our base. Unlike your Bible, with its multitude of languages and versions, our Koran has only one, written in Arabic in the original words of the Prophet Mohammed. To understand it, you must learn to read its 443

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hundred and fourteen Suras in the language of the Prophet. The words of Allah will always be applicable to whatever happens in the universe. Lou you must have something, Lou, that you can grasp in order to help you deal with change.”

“I guess it’s my family and the cultural and business guidelines we impose on ourselves.”

“Good, let the universal change happen and accept that for now, the Shah will take control of Abu Musa and extend the territorial waters that contain your gas and oil field, nationalizing it under the Iranian National Oil Company (INOC).”

“If what you say about the universe constantly changing is true, why has the fighting between the Israeli andArabs continued for hundreds of years and continues as we just experienced?”

“Change will happen when the time is right for it to happen.

In the next forty, fifty, or sixty years from now, first one Arab country will start relations with the Israelis and then another and another. Even our new country will, in time, find that the economic and political benefits outweigh the tribal prejudices, and we will see yarmulka-headed Israeli businessmen walking our streets because it benefits us.”

Lou nods. “Why are you so sure the Iranian takeover will happen?”

“The Bedou telegraph, my friend. Sharjah has already negotiated an agreement with Iran that it will not contest the annexation of their island if the Shah agrees to sharing the field production with them.”

Having been quiet throughout the discussions, Dhahi speaks in Arabic to Shaikh Mohammed. Nodding his head slowly, Shaikh Mohammed lets out an audible, “Ahhh.” He turns to Lou. “Dhahi brings up another theory. It has been over one hundred years since Ras Al Khaimah split from Sharjah. Besides the share in the oilfield, perhaps the Ruler of Sharjah, Shaikh Khalid bin Mohammed, is looking for support from Iran to bring Ras Al Khaimah back under his rule.”

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Lou looks at Dhahi. “You’ll be a great CID officer someday, Dhahi. You’re a cunning thinker just like Machiavelli.”

Mohammed explains the Machiavelli reference in Arabic for his companion Dhahi, who breaks into a big smile and replies, “Shukron, Lou.” Mohammed turns again to Lou. “Compensation is not your biggest concern with your oil company. Nic and the chairman of the oil company, Scotty La Rouche, have been meeting with the head of the INOC, regarding the signing a concession for the same field, once Iran has control of it. I suspect they may have even shared your seismic and other data with them.”

“Fuck them.” Lou bites his lip. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”

“The word is Ayreh Feek,” Dhahi says with a grin.

“Thank you, I’ll remember that.” Lou smiles. “How did Nic get to the decision makers in INOC so quickly?”

“Lou, think about it. The Ruler of Sharjah, our friend Majid, or other power brokers would be happy to make the introduction for a price or shares in the company.”

“That bastard La Rouche has already gone around me and cut us out of a concession that he signed in Abu Dhabi! I understand that the Shah also wants the Greater and Lesser Tunb Islands.

But why? There’s no oil there.”

“The Shah is a military man and wants to revive the Persian Empire. He believes he is the successor to Cyrus the Great.

He’s already planning for an elaborate celebration for the two thousand, five hundredth anniversary of the founding of the ancient Achaemenid Empire by Cyrus. He intends to showcase Iran’s advances to the West and to celebrate Iran’s Aryan roots and pre-Islamic origins while promoting Cyrus the Great as a national hero.” Mohammed takes in a deep breath. “From those islands in the Strait of Hormuz, Iran can command the traffic in the Gulf and virtually control the flow of petroleum and other goods to and from the Gulf. They are of strategic importance and 445

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of tremendous military value.”

“This brings up a third scenario,” Mohammed continues.

“The Shah is supporting Shaikh Khalil bin Saqr, the Ras al Khaimah Crown Prince, in staging a coup against his father. In return, once the new ruler takes over, he will make an agreement with the Shah allowing him to annex the Tunb Islands. Besides the Islands, the Shah will get Ras al Khaimah as an ally on the Arabian side of the Gulf, and Shaikh Khalil will get a big compensation check.” Abruptly rising from his chair, Mohammed turns toward Dhahi. “Please call the guardhouse for Mr. Lou’s driver.”

As Lou stands, Mohammed grasps his hand as they slowly walk to the front entrance where Dhahi joins them on the porch.

“It seems that my work is cut out for me, Your Highness.

Again, I thank you for your help.”

As the Jag, with Lou’s high-priced driver, pulls up to collect him, both Arabs shake hands with Lou. Standing on the top step as the car pulls away, Shaikh Mohammed turns to Dhahi. “Put twenty-four-hour protection on him in Dubai. Do it so he doesn’t know. Even if Nic were eliminated, the Hashashin will still honor their agreement.”

“Yes, Shaikh, consider it done.” **** “Sorry to keep you waiting so long, Carl,” Lou apologizes.

“No problem at all. I found a nice little pub about a mile further down the road and had a couple of pints before I came back to the parking lot for a short nap.”

“Perhaps I should drive—or at least get a break on your hourly rate,” Lou teases.

“Bollocks, I’m perfectly fine.”

“I need some time to ingest all of the information I was just provided.” Reclining the seat back, Lou closes his eyes. “I’m just going to take a short rest.”

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Gently shaking Lou’s shoulder, Carl announces, “We’re here at the Dorchester. Get a good night’s sleep, and we can meet tomorrow midmorning before your flight to Beirut.”

Grateful for the respite, Lou exits and thanks Carl as the valet takes his luggage and briefcase from the boot of Carl’s car.

“See you tomorrow.”

Early the next morning, Lou calls Zio Fabio to brief him on Monday’s meeting with Mohammed. “Zio, I think it’s time to take some action with Nic. Do I have your blessing?”

“You are in charge of your Domain, Don Luigi. It is your decision. Just let me talk with Meyer and make sure Nic is not tied in with any of our families on his treachery. We don’t want to start a war.”

“Of course. I understand. Ciao, Zio.” Spending the morning with Carl Conetti, Lou nixes the option of declaring force majeure, and the two of them outline plans to exit the Abu Musa concession should they not be able to drill, but with a caveat that a concession block of the Musandam be given as a tradeoff. “This time I’ll choose the oil company and our partner.”

“Carl, I want to make sure Shaikh Saqr comes out of this on the financial upside. We’ll pay him a large fee for terminating the present concession and a large signing bonus for the new concession.”

“I understand, but as your lawyer, I advise against this. The financial loss to you and the family will be significant after all the money you’ve fronted to Scotty La Rouche and CGP.” “Thank you for your concern. I think we can convince Scotty to share in this loss. Get the documents ready. Hopefully, we will be able to start drilling and won’t need them.”

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Chapter 30 Chess Without Rules Tuesday July 11, 1967

Lou’s plane change in Beirut is tight, but as a first-class passenger, he was met on the tarmac by MEA guest services and shuttled to his plane to Dubai.

It is late evening in Dubai when a wide awake and hyped Lou landed. Rather than go to an empty house, Lou instructs the taxi driver to head to the Ten Tola. Arriving at the Bustan Hotel, he instructs the Ten Tola doorman to put his belongings in his office and then enters the bar.

“Lou, what are you doing back already?” Putting on a vocal show for the patrons, Sam continues, “We had news of your terrible ordeal and the loss of the Puss and Hoots. We all thanked God that you, Frankie, and the crew are all safe. It will make a great story for your kids someday,” he says and gives his partner and friend a tight man-hug. “Come, sit, and tell us the details.”

“Another night, fellas, I’m knackered,” he says to the customers sitting at the bar with Sam. “Just a nightcap, and my promise that we’ll hold a story telling night next week with Frankie and me.”

“Hear! Hear! To Lou’s safe return,” the boys cheer before he even gets his drink.

“Next round’s on me,” Lou graciously thanks as he receives his scotch.

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Lou quietly talks to Sam. “Sorry for not contacting you, but there was nothing I could say on the phone. I knew you’d hear about our safe escape.”

“No need to worry about calling anymore. Everything is in place. We’ve even installed a secure scrambler unit on a new line in your house. I’ll give you the numbers tomorrow.”

“Are you up to meeting about ten in the morning?” Lou asks.

“Of course, but why don’t I drive you home, and we can cover some issues during the ride?” Calling to the bartender, Sam asks him to have one of the boys put Lou’s bags in his car and to bring it around front. Saying goodnight to the remaining guests and staff, the two partners depart.

By the time they cross the Maktoum Bridge, Sam has a good indication of what ordeals they are facing. Using his military training and counterinsurgency experience, he spouts a number of strategy options for them to consider to protect Lou from Nic’s buttonman. Arriving at the beach villa, he helps carry Lou’s luggage into the house and bids him a goodnight.

After an early morning run and swim and a big breakfast, Lou’s ready to do battle. Arriving at the office early, he starts to outline some of the plans he and Sam had discussed on the ride home.

“Morning, Sam,” Lou cheerfully greets.

“You’re sure in a good mood.”

“I think you cheered me up with some of your ideas last night. I couldn’t help thinking of them and even played around this morning on some modifications, but how do you prepare for the unknown—when, where, how? In this chess game, there are no rules.”

“Information. The more we can gather about what Nic is scheming and why he needs you gone, the more it will help us plan our strategy.”

“I have a lunch meeting here with Maccie La Rouche tomorrow afternoon to see where we are with the drilling 449

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program. Hopefully, we can get some insight from him. He likes to talk and slips up a lot. Why don’t you join us so you can hear what he has to say and watch his reactions?” **** Thursday July 13, 1967

Waiting until Maccie finishes chewing a mouthful of lunch, Lou asks, “Fill me in on where we are with the drilling program.”

“Two potential well sites have been selected, and a drilling contract is ready to be signed. The Crown Prince, Shaikh Khalil, requested to view the site locations. He wanted to see how far they were from Abu Musa, so we did a fly around the sites and the island for him. He seemed very pleased.”

“Have you signed the contract?”

“As per your orders, I’ve waited to check with you before proceeding. We have one week to make the final decision and sign.”

Reaching under the table, Maccie retrieves his briefcase and puts it on the empty bench space next to him in the booth. “I have the original contract with me for you to review.” He hands the document to Lou. “How long before they can mobilize?”

“We’ve had some good luck on that. The Iranian National Drilling Company has a jack-up rig available and an open time slot that actually moves our spud timeline up one month. And the rig is just across the Gulf in Bandar Abbas, a short and easy tow job to our field. Cuts our mobilization cost significantly. They plan to give the towing and placement contract to McDermott.”

“I’m surprised the Iranians are willing to drill for us.”

“Oh, no, they’re thrilled. My dad and Shaikh Khalil met with them in Tehran last week, and they seem very interested in working with us in our concession.”

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“I’ll bet they are,” Sam mutters as he catches Lou’s glance at the mention of Shaikh Khalil.

“They gave us a great rate of twenty-five thousand dollars per day, and they can have the drilling rig in place by mid-August, or earlier so they and the service companies can be ready to drill by September first. That rate and the lower mob costs will significantly reduce our drilling budget. Hopefully, since it’s an Iranian-owned rig, their navy won’t cause any problems for us when we move it in position.”

“Are their vessels still hassling the crew and work boats?”

“They stay in the area but aren’t cruising in front of them or bothering their work anymore.”

“I’d like to talk to your father. Is he still in Tehran?”

“No, after he negotiated the drilling contract, he traveled to Johannesburg. We have some mining interests in Central and South Africa. He should return to his London home in a week or two and stay there for the rest of the summer.”

“When you next talk to him, can you please tell him that we plan to schedule a partners’ meeting in Dubai when we move the rig. And ask him to call me when he gets back to London.”

“I’ll give him a heads up on the meeting and calling you.”

After several minutes of silence, Lou gives Sam his let’s end this shit signal.

Picking up on Lou’s body and facial language, Sam asks, “Can we offer you some dessert or coffee?”

“None for me, I need to get back to the office. Thank you for the lunch. Best quesadillas I’ve ever had.”

“Thank you for coming. I’ll get the contract back to you tomorrow with any questions.”

The three men stand and shake. “Let me walk you to the door,” Sam offers courteously, while Lou sits back down in the booth.

When Sam returns, Lou asks, “So, what do you think about this Iranian rig deal?”

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“Sounds dodgy to me, especially since it appears both Nic and Scotty were in Tehran at the same time. Also, Maccie was just too composed during lunch when he talked about the rig.

Almost as scripted. He’s usually nervous around you.”

“Unfortunately, I have to agree with you.” With a grin, Lou adds, “I love to fuck with poor Maccie and make him anxious.

He’s not the brightest bulb in the chandelier.

“The fact that Shaikh Khalil has been involved in the contract discussions in Tehran concerns me even more than Nic’s presence. I’ve been told to be wary of Khalil by Toufiq, as well as by Shaikh Mohammed bin Rashid.”

Lou slides out of the booth. “I’m going up to the office to call Nic’s secretary to see if she has heard from him. Come and join me while I talk with her.”

Sam looks at Lou. “Don’t forget we have a secure line now, if you want to talk with your uncle.”

“Good idea. It’s too late in NOLA now, but I’ll call him first thing in the morning.”

In the office, Lou dials Nic’s direct line and, after several rings, he hears a soft voice announcing, “Mr. Nicandro’s office.”

Quickly cupping the phone, Lou whispers to Sam, “What’s her name?’

“Darlene.”

Pushing the speaker button so Sam can listen, Lou says, “Hi, Darlene, this is Mr. Falconi. Is Nic back in the office?”

“No, sir. He’s not expected back for another week or so.”

“Do you have a number where I can reach him. I believe he’s in Iran?”

“No, sir, he’s in Johannesburg. I made a reservation for his flight from Tehran to South Africa, but he said he would take care of his own hotel booking. He hasn’t contacted me to let me know where he’s staying. If he calls, I’ll ask him to get in touch with you.”

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“No, don’t bother. I’ll see him when he returns,” Lou says, controlling his anger as he hangs up.

“That son of a whore is in South Africa! First, he and Scotty are in Tehran at the same time, and now South Africa. I will bet Nic made the contact that allowed Scotty to get the Abu Dhabi concession.”

Sam shakes his head. “Nic doesn’t have the high-level clout to get to the top Abu Dhabi Oil decision makers, nor the Iranians.

He has to be working with someone with big wasta as a broker.”

Agitated, Lou gets up and paces around the office. “There’s only one person I know who can straddle the Iranian and Arab sides of the Gulf with that kind of political power, and that’s Majid. There are a lot of people of Iranian heritage that have high level positions as executives and advisors here, and in Iran, who look up to him as the leader of the Iranian Shi’ite community in the Trucial States. He’s the only one who can pull it off.”

“Maybe he needs to have an accident.”

“Can’t do. Mohammed says he will deal with him when the time is right.”

“I can check with my South African military contacts to see if they can find out who Scotty’s business contacts are. They have spies everywhere—trying to keep Apartheid in check. If we can find out who he’s meeting, we can get some indication of what they’re doing there. There is only a two-hour time difference, so I can call now.”

“Wait here while I call Toufiq, and then you can have the office secure line to make your calls.”

Picking up the phone, Lou buzzes his assistant Shashi. “Can you call Toufiq Abdul Kazim on his Monte Carlo number for me? Put it through line two?”

Seeing the line button flash, he picks up the receiver and again hits the speaker button. “Toufiq, this is Lou. I hope I’m not interrupting you?”

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“Not at all, Lou. I’ve been talking with Meyer, and he told me about your unfortunate adventure in the Red Sea. Thank God you or no one else was injured. I’m sure Nic isn’t happy about losing his yacht.”

Sarcastically, as if joking, Lou responds, “I think he’d preferred that the boat survived instead of me. I called to see if Maccie La Rouche or his father Scotty have been keeping you up to date on what’s happening with the drilling program?”

“I’m aware that they have a drilling location and are negotiating for a rig.”

“Are you aware that it is with the Iranian National Drilling Company?”

“I’ve had no feedback on the Iranian rig. I’m sure Shaikh Saqr won’t object as long as we get it drilled.”

“Maccie’s father Scotty, Nic, and Shaikh Khalil were all in Iran together during the negotiations. Nic and Scotty are now in Johannesburg. Do you know where Khalil is now?”

“I have no knowledge of Khalil’s movements and would be surprised if His Highness asked him to go to Iran. Tomorrow is Friday, and I always give Shaikh Saqr a call after prayers. I’ll call you and let you know what I find out after I talk to him.”

“Thanks, Toufiq. Something is not right with this picture.

We need to find out what we can. You have a good evening, and we’ll talk tomorrow.”

Hanging up, he looks at Sam with a puzzled look. “Not very helpful. If he doesn’t have more feedback from the Ruler tomorrow, I’ll set up a meeting to see him in Ras Al Khaimah.

The phones are all yours. I’ll be downstairs.”

For the next two hours, Sam is occupied with multiple phone calls, listening, questioning, and taking notes. Finishing his last call, he contacts Omar in the bar and asks him to tell the boss to come up to the office when he can. Organizing his thoughts, he’s ready to brief Lou on what he has learned.

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“Sorry it took me so long in the bar. I couldn’t break away from a couple of the offshore divers. The oil patch has some really interesting and eccentric people, and all are big drinkers.”

“I guess you have to be a bit different to live on boats and rigs for a month or more and spend several days or even weeks under water in a linked dive chamber when they do saturation dives.”

“How did your calls go?

“Interesting, to say the least. Most of these South African military guys are a bunch of racists and members of the Afrikaner National Party who control the government, but I played the good Irish Aryan to get what information I could.

“It seems that the South African military is like a cult. The government even hires them out as mercenaries in places like Angola and Mozambique—and to provide private security for foreigners who do business in Africa. One of my old friends is the assistant to the Commandant General. It seems that the Commandant met with three businessmen, two Westerners and one Middle Easterner, regarding hiring a team of twenty-five special services forces to take control of a disputed island in the Arabian Gulf. They made it sound like it would be a simple operation with few defenses, only a few police, and all they would need to do is to take control of the Island for forty-eight hours.”

“What about the Iranians?”

“They explained that the Iranian government would send in their troops, and the South Africans would surrender to them without a fight. The Iranians would hold them for a day or two and then repatriate them back to South Africa.”

“It sounds like Iran doesn’t want to wait to negotiate the Bahrain /Abu Musa trade with the British through the proper international channels. They must want our oil field badly.”

“Did the Commandant agree to the contract?” Lou eagerly asks.

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“My friend wasn’t in the meeting, but he was told afterward that the Commandant thought that it seemed like an easy job and good money for the government. But with the social climate and tensions in the Middle East, they preferred to keep their activities limited to Africa, so he declined.”

“Did he give you names?”

“Just two John Does and one Mohammed Doe,” Sam says with a smile. “No one uses their real names until it’s time to transfer money, and even then, it’s one Swiss numbered account to another.”

“Sounds like these guys learned how to do business from my Godfather Meyer Lansky,” Lou says, returning the smile.

“He did, however, make an introduction for them to meet the Irish mercenary leader Mad Mike Hoare, who now lives in South Africa. You may have read about his involvement in putting down a rebellion in Katanga, a province trying to break away from the newly independent Republic of the Congo in 1961.”

“I was too busy partying then at Harvard to bother with world affairs.”

“He was hired again in 1964, by the Congolese Prime Minister, who was his boss in Katanga. This time, Mad Mike led a military unit made up of a confederacy of three hundred misfits, a mixture of South Africans, Rhodesians, British, Belgians, and Germans, to fight the Simba rebellion. It was an attempted revolution backed by the Cubans and other communist organizations. Mad Mike got a lot of good press on that one as he told the world he was fighting to save Africa from communism.”

“I do recall reading about that one. I just don’t understand why the Shah would want to take over Abu Musa militarily now.

In a couple of years, he can get it legitimately with the blessings of the British and other Western nations.”

“It’s a false flag operation,” Sam responds. “He wants it to appear that he is liberating the island from being invaded by 456

As told by Luigi Falconi to John Dragonetti

foreigners. Once he has his troops there, they will just stay, probably with Sharjah’s permission, saying the island needs protection. This will give him a better bargaining position in negotiating the agreement.”

“But the question is why is Khalil involved?” Lou asks.

“Abu Musa belongs to Sharjah. I understand why the Shah would want a Ruler in power in Ras Al Khaimah that would be allied with Iran. Once the Federation of Trucial States is formed, a foothold on the Arabian side of the Gulf would be strategic for the Shah. He could even set up a naval base in the Musandam.”

“Maybe Iran’s strategy is to help Shaikh Khalil to take over from his father, and then go after Ras Al Khaimah?” Sam asks.

“Of course. I think that could be it. When I met with Shaikh Mohammed in London, he and Dhahi presented two possible scenarios. One is that the present Ruler of Sharjah wants to reunite Ras Al Khaimah under his rule before the formation of a federation and is working with Khalil and Iran to help him depose Shaikh Saqr. The other is that Iran is working with Khalil to depose his father Shaikh Saqr. Khalil will cede the Tunb Islands to Iran for military use, and Khalil will get compensation. In either scenario, Iran wins by gaining influence on the Arabian side of the Gulf. If they control both Emirates, this takes away the water barrier between Iran and Saudi.”

“Well, it can be easy enough for us to find out.”

“How do we do that?”

“I go to South Africa and talk to Mad Mike Hoare. My father and Mike both joined the London Irish Rifles when WWII started and bunked together until they split up the unit. My father still keeps in touch with Mike. I’m sure he will meet the son of his old friend Ronan Sweeney.”

“I’m not comfortable with you going there alone with Nic there. I’m sure he has some muscle with him.”

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“I’ll wait until Nic, Scotty, and Khalil set up their deal with Mad Mike and leave Johannesburg. I can take one of our friends from the Ras Al Khaimah Security Force as backup. I still have a lot of old drinking mates around there if I need more help.”

458

Chapter 31 Angels and Assassins Friday July 14, 1967

The Thursday night crowd is always a bit disorderly, mostly single guys letting off steam after working hard during the week.

The male/female ratio of ten to one only adds to the tension that too much booze can trigger. Trying to be a good host may look like a fun and glamorous job, but it can be exhausting. Small talk with the diners, compliments to the female patrons, breaking up fights, and ejecting inebriated patrons takes a lot out of a person.

After closing, Lou tells Sam to head home and he will stay to count receipts and get the place cleaned and ready for the Friday crowd.

Having finished the clerical work, rather than driving home, Lou retreats to the office to lie down on the sofa and promptly falls into a deep sleep.

Jerked awake by the sound of the door being unlocked, a sleep-dazed Lou grabs for the Beretta stuffed under the cushions and rolls off the couch onto his back with the 22 pointed up at the intruder.

“Whoa, hold on, buddy,” Sam says while holding his hands out in front of him to show he is unarmed. “It’s just me.”

“Sorry, Sam. I guess this thing with Nic and his assassins has me on edge.”

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“Hmmm, a twenty-two caliber Beretta seventy, a favorite of the Mossad. I guess I know how you got that,” Sam says, smiling. “Do you know how to shoot it?”

“Of course. Remember what I did in the Musandam a couple of years ago with that old AK-47? I was also the best shot with a handgun in my ROTC class in high school.”

Sam nods. “Good news. I got Mike Hoare’s phone number from my South African friend, and my dad called him this morning. He said he would love to meet me when I come through Johannesburg.”

“It seems like this thing is getting very political. I think I need to have a chat with Shaikh Saqr. Unfortunately, Toufiq is not in town to translate, and I’m not sure if my Arabic is good enough to get my words across properly.” Lou considers. “It would also be helpful for any feedback from Mike Hoare and your South African friends. Why don’t you book you and your traveling companion for late next week, say Thursday the twentieth? I need you here at the Ten Tola this week while I deal with the drilling and other family businesses that need my attention.”

The phone rings with the lights blinking on line two. Lou picks up the phone and listens quietly. “Thank you, Toufiq. I appreciate you calling.” He places the receiver back in the cradle.

“What did he have to say?” Sam asks eagerly.

Lou holds up his hand to silence Sam, and then retrieves the receiver and dials his uncle in New Orleans. He puts the call on speaker phone and explains the situation to Fabio.

“That’s what we know for now, Zio. We believe that Nic and Scotty have made some kind of deal with Iran for the concession we now have. After we’re forced to terminate, they will take over the concession once Iran annexes Abu Musa legally. It’s probably already signed, with a clause that it’s binding once Iran gets control of the island.”

“Lou, my first concern is your safety. Fuck the island and the oil concession. Let me send you some muscle. I’ll get Frankie to 460

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head back immediately, and he can bring a few of the boys with him.”

“It will be good to have Frankie around to cover my back, Zio. Sam has lined up some of our expat friends as well as some of his friends who serve in the Ruler of Ras al Khaimah’s Security Forces, and Shaikh Mohammed has offered me some of his private guard if I need help. We should be in pretty good shape to meet any challenge.

“These South African mercenaries aren’t coming for me, Zio. Shaikh Mohammed told me it’s the Iranian Hashashins that Nic has hired to kill me. Something else is going on, and my gut tells me that it has something to do with Shaikh Khalil.

“I just spoke with Toufiq, and he tells me he spoke to the Ruler, and he wasn’t aware his son went to Iran—he thought he was in London. Shaikh Saqr did tell Toufiq he knew his son was going to South Africa on a safari hunt.

“Sam also tells me that his South African contact mentioned there were three people meeting with the military brass about hiring some counter insurgency specialists; one of them was a Middle Eastern gentleman. Sounds like it could be Khalil.”

“Keep me posted on any new developments and let me know your moves. Ciao, Don Luigi. Stay safe.”

“Ciao, Zio.” Lou hangs up the phone and looks at his partner.

“Did you catch all of that, Sam?” “Yeah. Khalil went on a hunt all right—just not for wild game.”

Lou walks over to the one-way glass window and watches the bustling crowd below in the Ten Tola. Friday afternoon is family lunch time, and he sees a number of friends from various companies enjoying their one full day off with their wives and children. In a corner, he spots Luca and Susan with their three kids sitting with Josh Sampson’s family. “Oh, shit! Luca is in the restaurant, and I haven’t even called him to let him know I’m back.”

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“You better go down and visit. We don’t want him upset with you. We may need his help soon.”

Lou takes a quick shower and puts on fresh-smelling clothes.

With still-damp hair, he hustles down the stairs and winds his way through tables greeting diners until he reaches his cousin.

Luca sees him approach and starts to give him the finger, then lowers his hand.

“Luca, Susan, Josh, Nellie, how are you doing? Quite the gang you have here.”

“Damn it, Lou. You’re back and didn’t even call,” reprimands Luca.

“Sorry, but it’s been a busy trip home, and I just needed a few days to regenerate my mental batteries.”

Josh, always the one for a good ribbing, adds, “If the most luxurious and best dive boat in the Gulf caught on fire and sank on my watch, I’d be afraid to come home and tell Nic, too.”

“Josh, watch what you say. The kids repeat everything they hear,” Nellie chastises her husband.

“We’re just glad you and Frankie and the crew are all safely back,” Susan says. “We want to hear the full story after you catch up on whatever it is you do. How about dinner with close friends later next week?”

“That would be lovely. Flick should be back by then. Not sure she’s still talking to me, since I haven’t called her since I left.”

“When you tell the story at dinner, better embellish it and make it look like it was a lot more dangerous. She’ll be so thankful you’re back safely; she’ll forgive you.”

“Appreciate the advice, Nellie, but it will be hard to exaggerate. It was quite a stressful experience. I’ll tell it like it was and hope for the best.”

“Josh, how have things been at MOMS with both Frankie and Nic out of town?”

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“We’ve got some good people, so things get done as needed.

None of the problems we had before everyone left,” he says cryptically.

Getting the meaning, Lou responds, “When you have some time, come by the office and we can talk shop.”

“Will do.”

“Folks, excuse me, I need to say hello to our patrons. Luca, talk soon, and, Susan, let me know about dinner. Thursdays are best for me.”

Lou walks up to the bar and leans in. “Omar, will you put the bill for table twelve on my tab?”

Without missing a beat while he pours a large margherita, Omar nods in acknowledgement. **** Wednesday July 19, 1967

Lou is noticeably absent from the Ten Tola during the early days of the week while he meets with Maccie to finalize and sign the contract for the Iranian drilling rig. Several meetings at MOMS with Josh and other senior management assures Lou the operations are going well and new contracts are being secured daily. New staff have been hired, an expansion of the fabrication yard is being undertaken, and the finances are all in order.

On Wednesday, Lou’s driver pulls up to Josh’s house to collect him for the drive to Ras Al Khaimah to inspect the Marine Offshore Maintenance Services office and jetty, and to meet at the casino with the manager, Halib Haider.

Waiting out front of his home, Josh approaches the vehicle.

“Josh, you take the front passenger seat. I’ll stretch in back,” Lou offers.

Pulling open the front door of the Land Rover, Josh looks at the stranger behind the wheel. “Lou, who’s your new driver?”

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“Josh, this is Yusuf. He just took over from Ahmet, who was promoted to the driver for the Ten Tola while I was away.”

Always cordial, Josh reaches over to shake hands. “Nice to meet you, Yousuf. I’m Josh.”

“Salam, sir,” Yusuf replies.

The first stop on their Ras Al Khaimah visit is to the MOMS jetty and fabrication yard. As it is a much smaller operation than Dubai, the inspection and finance meeting is completed in a couple of hours, allowing them to move on to their next stop at the Ras Al Khaimah Hotel Casino.

After reviewing the ledger from the casino, Halib, Josh, and Lou have lunch in the hotel dining room before their return to Dubai. Sitting in the front of the Land Rover with the driver, Lou and Josh chat across the back of the seat about the new contracts MOMS has secured, some due to Josh’s salesman skills, but most directed from Iskar and Majid’s office.

Pleased that all the businesses survived Nic’s reckless attempted drug play and with income higher than normal, thanks to new business and funds being channeled from Hong Kong by Tony Conetti, Lou relaxes. Good news to pass on to the family partners when Meyer’s in town.

They continue the chit-chat until they reach the new Ras Al Khaimah–Dubai Road. The sound of the rolling tires and smooth asphalt ride lull both men into napping mode. Just as Yusuf reaches the outskirts of the second Ajman/Sharjah border, he slows down. Reacting to the sensation of the change in momentum, both men wake up.

“What seems to be the problem, Yusuf?”

“It appears to be an accident, Mr. Lou. There are two vehicles on the road. One is partially blocking the road. The other is off to the side.”

“Strange there are no other cars behind or in front of us,” Josh comments. “This is usually a busy time of the day.”

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As Yousuf cautiously starts to maneuver around the older model Mercedes in the road, a man dressed in a traditional dishdasha but wearing a black Balaklava covering his face steps into the highway from behind the car parked on the soft shoulder and raises what looks like a rifle.

Without having to think, Josh’s Green Beret training kicks in and he yells, “Get down! He has an M-16 assault rifle.”

Quickly reaching under his seat, Yusuf pulls out an automatic handgun and begins to shoot a salvo through the windscreen at the attacker.

At the same time, Lou pulls the black Beretta from his backholster, rolls down his window, and fires at another figure behind the car blocking the road.

Rather than continue the gun battle, Yusuf, with his gun in hand, hits the gas, and the Rover accelerates toward the car blocking the road. With his driver side wheels on the soft shoulder and the other two passenger side wheels on the edge of the hard tarmac, Yusuf fights to control the steering wheel.

Seeing his struggle, Josh reaches over and snatches the gun from Yusuf, allowing him to use both hands. As Yusuf slams into the roadblock, Josh continues shooting from his passenger window while Lou slides across the seat and fires from the driver’s side.

The sound of bullets hitting the aluminum body of the Land Rover is momentarily replaced by a loud crashing sound as the steel bumper guard on the front of the Rover smashes into the black sedan. Gripping the wheel tightly, Yusuf continues accelerating and forces the old model Mercedes off the road.

As Josh and Lou fire at the figures now well behind their moving vehicle, Yousuf begins to distance them from the attackers. Finally, out of firing range, Yusuf again reaches under the seat and pulls out a two-way radio. Josh, recognizing the Cobra, takes the handset from Yusuf, and explains, “I know how to operate this. What frequency do you want?” Following Yusuf’s instructions, he sets the hertz units to the proper number 465

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and hands it back to Yusuf. As he does, he sees blood on the steering wheel and Yusuf’s mangled left-hand finger.

Watching the exchange, Lou orders Yusuf to change seats with Josh. Without stopping the vehicle, Lou reaches over the backseat, takes the wet wheel from Yusuf, and steers while Yusuf slides over to his right, allowing Josh to climb over him into the driver’s seat and take control, keeping up their speed while Yusuf talks on the radio.

Lou struggles to understand Yusuf’s fast-talking Arabic, but he knows the wounded driver is talking to the Dubai Police CID unit.

Ten minutes later and closer to the Dubai/Sharjah border, a green police helicopter approaches the car. This time Lou understands the radio chatter as Yusuf orders them not to land but to continue back toward where the attack occurred to see if they can track the assailants.

Approaching the Dubai border, Josh sees the flashing lights of several police vehicles and starts to slow down, coming to a stop in front of them.

Using his dress shirt to wrap Yusuf’s hand, Lou slows the bleeding until first aid can be administered.

Ignoring his injury, Yusuf exits the car and approaches what appears to be a high-ranking officer with gold epaulets and a braided aiguillette worn over his shoulder standing next to a dishdasha-clad Dhahi Sadek Taweel.

Concerned for Yusuf’s injury, Lou tells Dhahi that their man needs medical treatment. Before Dhahi can call for the helicopter to return, it appears on the horizon and soon lands close to the team of CID officers.

Josh and Lou look on admiringly as Yusuf refuses to be taken to the hospital until he finishes giving his verbal report.

Once he completes discussion with the ranking officer, Lou and Josh walks up to Yusuf and each give him a big hug.

“Shukron, my friend,” Lou says, “you saved our lives.”

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In perfect English, Yusuf smiles and replies, “Just doing my job, sir.”

As the helicopter lifts off with Yusuf, Lou asks Dhahi, “Who was that man?”

“He’s one of us. Do you know of the angel, Jabril?”

“Yes, we call him Gabriel.”

“He is your guardian angel, sent by His Highness Shaikh Mohammed. You’ve had twenty-four-hour protection ever since you returned to Dubai.”

Josh approaches Dhahi. “Am I ever glad to see you again.

Thank you and His Highness for looking out for us. Where did Yusuf receive his training? He could’ve been a Green Beret.”

“British SAS, the best,” Dhahi teases the ex-Green Beret Josh.

Inspecting the pockmarked Land Rover with shattered windscreen and side windows, Dhahi tells Lou, “Leave your car here, the police will have it towed to the Rover dealer for repairs. I’ll take you both back to your homes.”

Before leaving, Lou and Josh speak to the commanding officer, thanking him and his team for their prompt action.

Silence ensues in Dhahi’s car until the adrenaline wears off, and then Josh and Dhahi start a friendly discussion as to who’s the better scuba diver.

“I sure would’ve liked one more dive from that beautiful boat,” Dhahi says nostalgically.

“Me too,” responds Josh.

Reaching Lou’s beach villa, Dhahi offers to take Josh home.

“I need to wind down a bit before I face my family. I’ll hang with Lou and have my wife pick me up later.”

“Please, my friends,” Dhahi says. “This must remain confidential, especially if we are to track down these Hashashins.

If you don’t mind, you need to meet with Colonel Harcross so he can take your statement in English and write a report for us.

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When he asks about your gun, Lou, tell him Shaikh Mohammed gave you permission to have it in country.

“I’ll have the colonel give you a call and send a new driver as soon as possible. Until then, plain-clothed officers will be watching your house.”

“Again, thank you, Dhahi. Please thank Shaikh Mohammed for us.”

As Dhahi drives off, Josh asks Lou, “Got any beer?”

Sitting in Lou’s lounge, the two drink and replay the events of the afternoon. By the third beer, Lou explains that an enemy of his family had put out a hit on him, thus the reason behind the attack.

“Why didn’t you tell me about this when you returned to Dubai? We could have put together our team to help protect you.”

“Sorry, Josh, but it was a family matter,” Lou says, refusing to elaborate further. **** Thursday July 20, 1967

Lou hands his cousin, Luca, a bottle of Dom Perignon, and kisses Susan on both cheeks. “Thank you so much for the invite.”

“Thank you for the champagne,” she replies. “I see you have a companion this evening. Felicity, welcome. Are you talking to him yet?”

“Barely. I’m waiting to hear how credible his story is and to see the scars on his torso, she says nonchalantly.”

“No physical scars, just mental ones. My shame in not contacting you is the biggest.”

Rolling her eyes up toward the ceiling, Flick responds, “You’re so full of shit. Can’t wait for the tale of the Puss and Hoots.”

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“Come into the living room,” Susan invites, “Nellie and Josh, Tim Johnson and Evie, and Pat and Ann Riley, as well as your cousin Frankie are there.”

“Frankie without a date! This is a first,” Lou chides as he walks in to join his friends.

“Hey, hey, hey. The Lou has risen. Like a Phoenix from ashes, he soars from the depths of the Red Sea,” a boisterous Tim Johnson recites. “Welcome back.”

“More like Aquaman without his leotards,” Josh quips.

“Okay, no more bad clichés. I’m in enough trouble as it is.”

“When is it story time?” Ann Riley asks. “Maybe you can write a good mystery novel based on true life experiences. How about Who Sank the Puss and Hoots as a title?”

“Come on, gang, it’s not funny,” Lou rebukes through the laughter. “I haven’t even had a drink nor a bite of food. Stories are for after dinner.”

Spotting his cousin Frankie sitting in the corner, he grabs him in a big Italian bear hug, kissing him on both cheeks. “I’m really glad to see you, cuz. When did you arrive?”

“Straight from the airport to here—a twenty-four-hour trip from NOLA.” Dinner regresses into an evening of after-meal toasts to Frankie and Lou’s safe return, priming everyone into story mode.

Finally, Lou asks for silence. “It was a dark and stormy night.”

“No Snoopy plagiarism,” Pat Riley demands. “The truth and only the truth.”

Lou continues, and over the next hour relates the saga of the last minutes of the Puss and Hoots, the engine room fire, abandoning the ship, and the follow up explosion from a wayward Egyptian landmine that, against great odds, worked its way from the Suez Canal to send the yacht to its watery grave in Davy Jones’ locker. Frankie picks up the narrative, explaining their rescue from their sinking Zodiac by an Omani fishing vessel and their continued journey back to New Orleans.

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Fulfilling his story-telling obligation, Lou stands and announces that he and Felicity are leaving and bids adieu to the guests. Grabbing an almost full bottle of wine from the table, the couple start their walk along the beach to Lou’s villa. Diplomatically trying to coax Felicity, still chafing from his neglect, into conversation, she responds tersely. Finally, in frustration, he sits down on the sand just above the tide line and takes a drink of wine. Holding the bottle up to Flick, almost as a peace offering, she concedes and joins him on the sandy shore.

Passing the bottle between them, Lou tries to explain why he didn’t call her. Frustrated by her silence, he stands and removes his clothing, throwing it all in a pile with the belted Beretta on top, and runs into the warm Gulf water.

Seeing the gun, Flick realizes what she always knew. Lou belongs to his family. All the stories she’s heard about the Falconis may have been embellished with fiction but have evolved from some form of truth. Wanting to comfort Lou, she removes her clothes and runs into the water after him.

Standing in the waist deep saltwater, Lou leans back, fills his lungs with a deep breath, and effortlessly floats on his back, his wet nakedness shimmering in the light of the full moon.

Reaching Lou, Flick bends over and strokes his hair, kisses him on his forehead, lips, neck, and chest, slowly working downward. With her right hand, she softly fondles him.

Effortlessly, she moves her hands in a gentle up and down motion while kissing him. In what seems like seconds, spasms start to release all his tension, and Flick strokes faster.

The discharge forces the air from Lou’s lungs, and he loses buoyancy, releasing him from the amazing experience of ecstasy.

As she stands, Lou reaches for her and pulls her close, kissing her neck, ears, and lips, while gently rubbing her. He softly massages until her body convulses wildly. Putting her arms around his neck, she pulls herself upward.

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Both now standing, Lou looks lovingly at Felicity. “Let’s go home to my bed.”

Except for answering the door to meet his new driver and showing him to his quarters at the back of the house, Lou and Felicity spend a naked Friday in bed.

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Chapter 32 Solving an Enigma Friday July 21, 1967

With Sam in Johannesburg, Lou arrives at the Ten Tola just before the lunch crowd. Inspecting the bar and dining areas, he enters the kitchen to greet the staff. On his way to his office, he tells Omar to call him if he needs any help.

He enters the office and then the control room to check with the technicians. Satisfied all is well, he retreats to his office and pulls back the curtains to give him a view of the bar. Knowing his boss’s routine, Shashi arrives with a cup of mint tea. Looking down at his domain, Lou’s surprised to see Pat Riley enter and approach Omar. A few seconds later the intercom rings and Lou answers.

“Mr. Riley would like to see you, sir.”

“Of course, send him up.” Quickly closing the curtains, he stands by the door to receive Pat. Just as Pat reaches the door, it’s pulled open, causing Pat to jump back. “Jesus, Lou, you scared the shit out of me. Can’t you wait until I knock?”

“Just being courteous. Why so jumpy?”

“No reason, really. You’re the one who should be jumpy. I was informed about the incident on Wednesday on the road to Ras Al Khaimah. Scary shit. Glad you and Josh came out of it in one piece.”

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“You and me both, my friend. I just hope the CID officer is doing well. He was a real hero. Josh and I have to give a statement to Colonel Harcross later today, so I can check on him and maybe visit if he’s still in the hospital.”

“I wanted to talk at dinner at Luca and Susan’s Thursday night, but there wasn’t a timely moment. I must have called your house five time on Friday to see if we could have a chat on the beach, but no answer.”

“Sorry about that. I was busy atoning for my sins all day. I’m still sore.”

Understanding the comment, Pat smiles. “Bragging or complaining?”

“A little of both,” Lou replies with an impish smile. “What did you want to talk about?”

“With the impending pull out of the Brits from the Trucial States, the US Government has some concerns about the future behavior of our close ally across the Gulf. There is an apprehension at some levels as to their intentions toward their Sunni neighbors on this side of the Gulf.”

“Yes, I can understand that. What do I have to do with this?”

“What I am going to discuss is at the highest level of security.

Since you do not have proper security clearance, I’ve been asked by the Director of the National Security Agency to have you read and sign this letter of confidentiality.” Reaching inside his coat pocket, Pat pulls out a letter and hands it to Lou. Opening the envelope marked “Confidential,” Lou’s attention is immediately drawn to the official NSA seal at the top. He slowly reads, rescans several sentences, and then looks up at Pat. “I’m not a lawyer, but if I’m reading this correctly, this is a general confidentiality agreement that is binding by both parties. But Lieutenant General Marshall Sylvester Carter, the NSA Director who signed this letter, doesn’t tell me what I’m supposed to keep confidential and what I want the NSA to keep confidential.”

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“That’s correct. The open-ended aspect was my suggestion.

I’ve convinced the director that an ongoing relationship between the NSA and you could be beneficial to both parties, especially for me in my role here.”

“Okay, what do you want?”

“Sign the letter, both copies, and let me witness, then I can talk about it.”

Lou picks up a pen, then hesitates. “What if I do something in my family business that may not be totally in line with the laws of the USA?” “As the letter states, as long as it is not a threat to national security, the NSA will be bound by the confidentiality agreement and will not notify any other government agency.”

“Does this include the FBI?” “It does.”

Putting the pen to paper, Lou signs both copies and hands the pen to Pat to add his John Hancock as witness.

“The NSA wants to place a listening post in the Hajar mountains on the Ras Al Khaimah side of the Musandam. Its purpose is to monitor radio, telephone, and other navigation and land traffic on the Iranian side of the Gulf as well as on the Saudi side. Because it’s so confidential, they do not want to approach the Ruler, Shaikh Saqr, through the normal political channels, especially through the British. The discussions are to be held between myself and the Ruler with you present. We need a reason for me to see Shaikh Saqr. Perhaps you can ask him to meet with a top executive of Continental Oil Company—me. At that meeting, I will present a proposal to him.”

Lou shakes his head. “His top advisor is out of the country.

I’m not sure the Ruler will agree to meet an oil company executive without him present, and we don’t want the Crown Prince or his brother Hamed to be involved.”

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“Let’s think about this,” suggests Pat. Seeing the coffee pot on the sideboard cabinet he asks, “Any chance for some of that coffee?”

“I’m so sorry,” Lou apologizes. “I’ve admired the Arab sense of hospitality since I first arrived, yet I revert to the American false principle of business first. Why don’t we go down and have a bite of lunch while we think over this situation?”

“Fine by me,” Pat replies as he collects the two letters and protectively puts them in his jacket pocket.

“Is one of those copies for me?”

“It is, but I can’t give it to you.” He pulls out a business card and hands it to Lou. “Your copy of the letter will be placed in escrow with this law firm. Should a situation arise where the letter may be needed, it can be collected by showing your original passport and giving them the number written on the back of the card.”

“What’s to stop me from collecting it tomorrow?” Lou asks, feeling as if he one-upped the NSA. “The firm needs my approval also, in the form of another code number. Double security.”

“Damn, Pat, you could die tomorrow.”

“I would be more worried about yourself. If I die, the code will be given to you by the director.”

“I don’t like it, but I guess it’s too late now. Let’s eat!”

Discussing various scenarios during lunch and having signed the NSA confidentiality letter, Lou decides to open up to Pat about his meeting with Shaikh Mohammed and his concern about what Scotty, Nic, and Shaikh Khalil may be planning, as well as Sam’s fact-finding mission to South Africa. “I really need to speak with Shaikh Saqr confidentially, but without Toufiq to translate, I’m worried that my Arabic may not be good enough to explain everything properly. Do you know Toufiq?”

“Toufiq is a friend of the USA, and he is aware of my role in Continental. Ask him if he will set up a one-on-one meeting for 475

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you with Shaikh Saqr, and you will bring me along as translator.

I believe he will agree. We could cover both of our issues with him in that meeting.”

“I’ll follow up after lunch and let you know what Toufiq has to say. Sam should be giving me some feedback in the next day or two, so we should wait until I’ve talked to him before seeing the Ruler.”

Finishing lunch, Pat takes his leave and Lou heads for the secure phone to call Toufiq.

Placing the call to Monte Carlo, he explains to the Ruler’s advisor the reasons for a private meeting with Shaikh Saqr, especially his alarm about Shaikh Khalil’s coincidental movements and meetings with Nic and Scotty in Iran and South Africa.

“I have arranged for Pat Riley to accompany me as translator, if that is acceptable to you and His Highness, and our preference for a meeting is at the end of this week.”

“Yes, Pat is well known to us in Ras Al Khaimah. And he speaks excellent tribal and formal Arabic. Let me talk to His Highness, and I will get back to you.”

Later in the evening, Lou is summoned to his office to take a call from Mr. Toufiq Abdul Kazim. Swiftly mounting the stairs, he locks his office door behind him and picks up the phone on his desk.

“Lou, your meeting is at five p.m. on Wednesday at Shaikh Saqr’s camp.”

“Thank you, Toufiq.” **** Wednesday July 26, 1967

With Lou’s new driver, Hamid, behind the wheel, Pat and Lou sit in the rear seat of the company’s new Land Rover.

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“Who’s the other National sitting in the passenger seat?

Does it have something to do with your incident on this road last week?” Pat asks.

Smiling, Lou replies, “He’s just a new driver in training.”

Pat returns the smile and refrains from further discussion on the subject. During the rest of the drive, Lou rehearses with Pat the facts he intends to share with His Highness, the most damning being the recent confirmation by Sam that Mad Mike and Sam’s friend, the assistant to the SouthAfrican Commandant, identified photos of Shaikh Khalil, Nic, and Scotty as the visitors that called on the Commandant as well as Mike Hoare.

“According to Sam, Mad Mike confided that he made a deal with the trio to provide a landing force of twenty-four men to make an assault on the Greater Tunb Island. Like the proposal that was declined by the South Africans, they are to just take control of the island for one or two days until the Iranian Government sends in their troops. Mad Mike will surrender his force without a fight, and the Iranians will hold them for a short time and then repatriate them to South Africa or a country of their choice that will accept them.

“All this time, I thought that Abu Musa was the intended target. The only thing on the Greater Tunb Island is a small police outpost, a red soil mine, and a fishing village.”

“Strategic positioning,” replies Pat. “Exactly what Shaikh Mohammed told me. From those islands, Iran can control the Gulf.”

“It’s an interesting strategy,” Pat replies. “The Shah wants to hedge his bet and take control of them now in case the negotiations for Bahrain don’t go as he plans. Once his troops have removed the mercenaries, Iranian troops will never withdraw. He’ll say he’s protecting the Gulf from foreign invaders and make both the Greater and Lesser Tunb Islands an Iranian protectorate, just as the British have done to the Trucial States for years.”

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“When I met Shaikh Mohammed in London, he advised that this was a strategy the Shah might use, but with one added component. At the same time the Shah takes control of the Tunb Islands, he will support the Ras al Khaimah Crown Prince, Shaikh Khalil bin Saqr, in overthrowing his father. In return, once Shaikh Khalil is in power as the new Ruler, he will make an agreement with the Shah, allowing him to permanently annex the Tunb Islands, which he already occupies. Ras Al Khaimah will be compensated by Iran with a large cash infusion, allowing Shaikh Khalil to quell tribal opposition and invest heavily in needed infrastructure, thus giving him more support from his tribesmen. It will also give him political and military protection to quell internal dissent and provide international protection, should Ras Al Khaimah decide not to join a Federation of the other Trucial States. Besides control of the Islands, the Shah will gain Ras Al Khaimah as an ally on the Arabian side of the Gulf; and, without the added complexity of having the Tunb Islands as a part of the issue, it simplifies his negotiations with the Brits on the trade of Bahrain for Abu Musa.”

“I believe you may be right, Lou, but the only proof you have is what Mad Mike Hoare has told Sam. Shaikh Saqr might just sluff it off as the ramblings of a mercenary. After all, he is called Mad Mike.”

“Once I get more feedback, and the invasion date from Sam, we can speak with Mohammed bin Rashid to ask his assistance in convincing Shaikh Saqr that we can help him to prepare for Mad Mike’s landing on the islands, and to defend them strongly enough to deter Iran from sending in troops.”

Reaching the turn off for the Ruler’s camp, the new Rover rides comfortably on the sandy track—but not as nice as the Mercedes that Lou fondly remembers being chauffeured to the camp for his first visit more than two years ago. Pulling into the campsite, Lou looks around and sees that, except for more tents, nothing has changed.

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Hamid drives up to the entrance of the largest tent, exits the vehicle, and opens the door for Lou, while his partner does the same for Pat. Waiting in front of his tent to welcome his guests is Shaikh Saqr and a young man in dishdasha and headcover.

Lou gives the Ruler a traditional salutation then turns, and in Arabic, introduces Pat. The Ruler explains that he and Pat know each other well, and the two do the customary greeting and chat in Arabic.

Stepping closer to the young man next to the Ruler, Lou recognizes Shaikh Saud, the Ruler’s fourth son, whom he met during his first camp visit. “As-Salaamu Aleekum,” Lou greets.

“How is your schooling in the UK going?

“I’ve completed my studies there and will be leaving for the USA next month to attend university,” the young Prince tells Lou in perfect English.

Shaikh Saqr leads the way into the tented majlis and instructs Pat to sit to his left and Lou to his right with his son next to Lou. As customary, the four inquire of family and exchange small talk in Arabic, while coffee, tea, and refreshments are served.

Once the servers depart, Pat leads the discussions, asking Lou to convey to His Highness the reason for his visit. As Lou explains what he has discovered, Pat translates it into flawlessArabic.Able to understand most of the dialogue, Lou watches His Highness’s facial expression fade into a surly annoyed appearance.

After the discourse by Lou is complete, the Ruler remains silent. Looking despondent, he stares at his young son and then for the next ten minutes calmly replies to what Pat just told him.

“Did you understand what Shaikh Saqr said?” Pat asks Lou. “Yes, that His Highness greatly appreciates what we have just told him. He is aware from loyal family and tribal members of some of the information we have shared with him. Also, that he had a recent meeting with the Ruler of Dubai regarding some smuggling operations that could cause great harm to both Dubai 479

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and Ras Al Khaimah. I didn’t understand if Shaikh Rashid told His Highness the type of smuggling and who might be involved.”

“He did,” Pat replied. “Shaikh Rashid was quite candid and explained what the Dubai CID knew, and how his son, Shaikh Mohammed, with your help, had the drugs destroyed before they could be sold. He also told His Highness that the British Defense Forces have a lead on the people financing the arms operations, and that the British Resident Officer is now involved in the matter.”

Lou starts to say something, but then turns toward the young Shaikh Saud and hesitates. Deciding to change the direction of the discussion, he addresses the Ruler in Arabic and tells him that the information conveyed to him will not alter CGP’s plans for drilling. They’re on schedule to move the rig in place by the middle of August, and to spud the well by September first.

Bolstered by the good news, the smiling Shaikh orders his son to arrange some pastries and fruit for their guests.

As they talk, servants prepare a splendid array of delights on a pillowed carpet, and the Shaikh invites them to sit and partake.

Picking up one of the golden-brown dates from the tray, young Shaikh Saud hands it to Lou. “This is a sukkari, very sweet, and melts in your mouth. The best Arabia has.”

“Thank you, Shaikh,” Lou says in Arabic as he takes the offering. “These are wonderful. May I?” as he reaches for more.

Seeing that the casual talk and refreshments have changed the tone of their meeting, Pat decides to take the opportunity to present the NSA proposal. Taking over the conversation, he explains the proposition regarding the desire by the NSA to build a listening post in the Hajar Mountains, and the security advantages to Ras Al Khaimah. For the next twenty minutes, Shaikh Saqr and his young son Saud question Pat on many aspects of it, especially the confidential nature of the post and the role of the British.

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Assuring His Highness that the British, have no involvement, he clarifies that the US Army Corp of Engineers will build the actual tower, building, and facilities. Because of security and confidentiality, they will need to work under another construction company, preferably one registered in Ras Al Khaimah.

Breaking from his discussions, Pat turns to Lou. “Can MOMS or your other company DOODS handle the construction role?”

Feeling confident, Lou replies to Pat in Arabic. “Yes, we can easily do that. We’ll register a new company in RAK with His Highness as our partner and utilize DOODS Dubai equipment and manpower.”

Hearing this, the Ruler smiles approvingly.

Pat continues his Arabic dialogue, explaining that an agreement will be drawn up in English and Arabic for His Highness to sign, and that the first yearly lease payment of two million dollars will be transferred to an account designated by His Highness within thirty days of signing.

The main subject, the treasonous treachery of Shaikh Saqr’s son Khalil, is a difficult one for Pat to reveal and for the Ruler to absorb, sets the depressing tone for the meeting. However, news of the drilling plans and the new income stream with its special relationship with the USA Government for a listening post, seems to raise Shaikh Saqr’s spirits.

Almost in a jovial mood, the Ruler and Shaikh Saud accompany Pat and Lou to their car to send them off. As Lou starts to climb into the backseat, the young Shaikh Saud grabs his hand, stopping his entry. Speaking softly, he whispers to Lou, “My father thanks you for all you have been doing for him and assures you that the matter with my brother will be dealt will accordingly.”

“Please tell your father that just as I assisted Shaikh Mohammed with the drug problem, my family and I are available to assist him also.”

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“Thank you. I will convey that to him. Ma’salama.”

“Goodbye, Shaikh Saud. We’ll meet again.”

With the sun setting, Lou and his front seat security team remain especially alert on their drive back to Dubai, hearing only some occasional radio chatter between the driver/CID agent, Hamid, and his office, making sure their route is unobstructed.

“That went well. My associates in Washington will be pleased,” Pat says to Lou. Silently, Lou looks back and forth at Hamid and the guard riding shotgun, and then faces Pat. “Can you join me at the Ten Tola for a drink before you go home?”

Immediately picking up on the gesture not to talk, Pat replies, “Yes, thanks for the offer.” **** Sitting at the back table reserved for the owners, Pat and Lou continue their discussion.

“It’s simple, Pat. We turn Mike Hoare into our whore, and we buy out his contract. We’ll give him double what Khalil, Nic, and Scotty are paying him to carry through on the landing, but using our plan instead. We guarantee he and his men safe passage home and lots of money. We just need Shaikh Saqr and Shaikh Rashid bin Saeed on our side to support us in any plan we devise.”

Still laughing from the double whore pun, Pat regains his CIA persona and asks, “What’s your plan?”

While Pat quietly listens, Lou lays out his scheme.

“That could work,” Pat replies. “However, with my political experience in this part of the world, the biggest factors to contend with is keeping it as an Iran/Ras Al Khaimah dispute and not a joint Trucial States problem with Iran. Any assistance from Dubai will need to be covert. Also, Ras Al Khaimah’s response will need to be done in such a way that the Shah can deny any involvement by Iran. He will need to save face in front 482

As told by Luigi Falconi to John Dragonetti

of both his Shiite and Sunni neighbors, and not upset the British or Americans so as to jeopardize his Bahrain/Abu Musa plans.

“The NSA has teams that strategize such situations. Since I was privy to the conversation, I will have to report on our discussions with Shaikh Saqr. It may be helpful for them to put several plans together for us.”

“By all means, please do. In the meantime, I’ll talk with Sam in the morning and have him feel out Mad Mike about our offer. **** Thursday, July 27, 1967

The banging on the office door tells Lou it must be Cousin Frankie. “Jesus, Frankie, you’ll wake the dead.”

“We need some time for you to fill me in on everything that’s’ happened since I’ve been gone. I’m one of your Consiglieres, remember? I can’t counsel and watch your back if I’m in the dark.”

“Everything has been moving so quickly, and since you got back, there hasn’t been much time to talk. I promise that from now on you’ll be in on everything.”

“I better damn well be. I’ve been back one week and had to hear from Josh about the attempted hit on you. I’m moving into your place and hanging with you twenty-four/seven.”

“Not necessary. I have two CID security guys on me all the time. We need to make it look like business as usual. Let me give you the brief version, and then stick around while I make some calls. Just listening will help bring you up to snuff.” Lou gives a quick explanation, then picks up the secure phone, pushes the speaker button, and then dials Sam’s hotel in Johannesburg. “Mr. Sweeney’s room, please.”

In a few minutes, Sam answers.

“Sam, it’s Lou and Frankie. How’s it going with Mad Mike?”

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“He’s actually a pretty nice guy, Lou. He’s a stickler for discipline and taking care of his men. He also believes in the Lord’s guidance.”

“You need to make the offer we discussed. Tell him that God is on our side and wants him to have all the money we’re prepared to pay him. Any idea when his money masters want the landing to take place?”

“Mad Mike said he had a few weeks to recruit and train his men, and they wanted to coordinate it with the movement of a drilling rig into the area. Probably later in August. Mike said it would be a simple job for him to recruit and train twenty-four men by then.”

“It seems obvious his incursion is timed with the moving of our Jack-up rig into position. Since it’s an INDC rig, there will probably be Iranian naval vessels in the area. That’s how they will be able to respond to Mike’s assault so quickly,” Lou says.

“Best if you can stay in South Africa another week and finalize business with Mad Mike. Try to get information on where he plans to land on the island. It will cost us, but that knowledge could be invaluable. Keep in touch and let me know how things go and how much its gonna cost.”

“Will do.”

Disconnecting the call, Lou asks Shashi to get Maccie La Rouche on the phone. Again, Lou pushes the speaker button and waits until he hears Maccie’s voice. “Hi, Maccie, just calling to see how things are going.”

“Good, Lou. We’ve tentatively scheduled the rig move on August twenty-ninth. We should be ready to drill as planned by September fifth or sixth.”

“Great news. Good job, Maccie. Have you heard from Dad?” “Yes, he’s in England now at his country home.”

“When you talk to him, tell him we’d like him to join the Ruler and me, when we move the rig. His Highness is planning a big dinner that evening. We’ll all go out on a MOMS boat to 484

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watch the move and set the rig. Some of our investors from the US will be in town, so we plan to have the partner meeting here at the same time. As soon as you have the move date confirmed, let me know so I can advise Shaikh Saqr and the partners.”

“Yes. I’ll speak to Dad and let you know as soon as I hear from INOC.” “Thank you, and have a good day.”

Again, picking up the secure phone, Lou dials an international number and places it on the speaker. “Zio, Luigi and Frankie here.”

“Oh, so Frankie didn’t get delayed in Beirut. Good boy, Frankie. Family first.”

“We just want to brief you on my recent meeting with Shaikh Saqr and news from Sam in South Africa.”

Frankie calmly listens, educating himself on recent events.

When he hears Lou tell his uncle about the assault made on him last week, he fidgets, then jumps up and stands close to the speaker phone. “Zio, please tell this man he needs to trust family.

It won’t happen again while I’m around.”

“Frankie’s right, Lou. But, Frankie, you need to listen to Don Luigi, he’s the boss. He will tell you what he needs you to know.”

Like a chastised kid, Frankie sits back down and remains silent.

Picking back up on the conversation, Lou says, “I need to make sure Meyer will be here for the rig move on August twentyninth. If the mercenary thing happens, it will happen then.”

“Don Luigi, call Meyer and speak to him, with respect, of course, but also with the authority vested in you by the family— including Meyer. Remember your position now.”

“Yes, of course, Zio. I still just think of him as family, like an uncle. I’ll give him a call now.” Lou swallows hard. “I still haven’t heard from Nic. Can you see if your people can track him down?”

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“Yes, I’ll find him. Do you want him back in Dubai now?”

“No, that’s not necessary, but I will need him here when Meyer and Scotty La Rouche are in town for the rig move. I’ll ask Meyer if he can help get Nic here. I heard he may still be in Beirut.”

“Don Luigi, please take care, and you too, Frankie. Watch out for each other and let me know when you need my help.”

“Of course. I’ll speak with you soon.”

Ciao, Zio,” both nephews simultaneously respond.

Hanging up the phone, Lou looks at Frankie. “You’re all caught up now, counselor.”

“Thanks, Lou, I know what you mean about talking to Meyer.

It’s hard for me to think of my older cousin as Don Luigi. You know you have my loyalty, and I’ll always have your back.”

“I know. Thanks, Frankie. Now, go to work. Someone needs to run that boat business.”

Once Frankie leaves, Lou dials Pat Riley’s secure number.

Like Uncle Fabio says, there are some things that a Consigliere doesn’t need to know.

“Pat, it’s Lou. Barring technical or weather issues, it looks like the rig move will most probably be on August twenty-ninth.

We’ll need to put that into our planning scenarios.”

“Thanks for letting me know, Lou. Mad Mike will land the same night as McDermott starts the rig towing. Iran will have a military vessel accompany the INDC-owned rig. Our sources tell us two hundred Iranian marines will be on that vessel, ready to land and capture the mercenary force once they know the island is secure and in their control. That means you’ll need to have the Ras Al Khaimah forces mobilized on the island and be in position before Mad Mike’s landing. Will your people be ready by then?”

“We will.”

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“Okay. I’ll convey this to the NSA now. Just remember, neither the US Government nor the NSA have any knowledge of this.”

Lou nods. “I understand, Pat. We have to move quickly as those plans are needed soon, and I also have to discuss everything with Shaikh Saqr. Additionally, I need to meet Shaikh Mohammed bin Rashid as he and his father, Shaikh Rashid, must give their approval to finalize this three-family alliance between the Al Qasimi, Al Maktoum and Al Falconi—as soon as possible. Also, the propaganda part of it needs to be in place, media and foreign government reactions, et cetera.”

“Don’t worry about that. The NSA will have all of it lined up. They are masters of propaganda. Just let me know who your front man for media will be.”

“Will do, talk soon.” Lou breaks the connection and then dials a UK number.

“May I speak with Shaikh Mohammed, please? This is Luigi Falconi.”

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Chapter 33 Tribal Triumvirate Sunday August 6, 1967

“Lou, I’m sorry you had to travel all this way, but my training schedule doesn’t allow me to take a trip home to Dubai anytime soon. You said you needed to talk to me before you saw my father. Fortunately for you, he spends some of August in London and is here now, so he will be joining us in our meeting today.

You sounded worried when you called.”

“Yes, Shaikh, worried enough to fly to London to speak with you about a situation that’s developing in the Gulf. When we met last month, you correctly predicted the strategy that Iran would take in regard to the Greater and Lesser Tunb Islands. One of our people, Nic Nicandro, and the Chairman of Canuck Petroleum Company, Scotty La Rouche, as well as Shaikh Khalil, the Crown Prince of Ras Al Khaimah, have allied themselves with Iran to take over the islands and support Shaikh Khalil’s removal of his father as Ruler.”

“Come, let’s join my father in his office.”

Entering the simply decorated small office, Lou undertakes the traditional greetings to Shaikh Rashid, then he and Mohammed sit in the two visitors’ chairs in front of the Ruler’s desk.

“Please tell me all you know so I can translate for my father.”

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For the next forty-five minutes, with timed pauses to allow Mohammed to interpret, Lou conveys details of the meetings in Iran and South Africa and the contracting of a mercenary team from there to assist in their conspiracy.

Completing the account of his investigations and proof of the plot, Lou conveys the plan, supported by his family, to stop Shaikh Khalil’s coup and block the plans of Nic and CPC. He purposely avoids telling them that Pat Riley and the NSA have been involved in putting together the strategy.

When Lou completes the explanation, father and son talk together in Arabic. Turning to Lou, the Ruler directs a question in Arabic to him. Before Mohammed can translate, Lou answers the Ruler’s question, also in Arabic.

“I need you to talk to His Highness Shaikh Saqr and get his support to allow us to help him stop this coup attempt and the takeover of his islands by Iran.”

Realizing Lou’s proficiency in Arabic has greatly improved, Mohammed asks, “Would you mind waiting for me in my office while I speak privately with my father?”

“Of course,” Lou replies as he stands and bids Ma’salama to the Ruler.

Self-absorbed in his thoughts, Lou waits in Shaikh Mohammed’s home office. After what seems like hours, but in reality, is no more than thirty minutes, Mohammed enters the room and takes a seat at his desk.

“Considering his friendship with Shaikh Saqr and your proven allegiance in the past with eliminating the drug smuggling, my father has agreed that we will support you and help Shaikh Saqr under the condition that this must be seen as a Ras Al Khaimah operation. Our assistance will be in equipment and arms for defending the Islands, but no Dubai tribal Security Forces, or Dubai Defense Forces can be involved. However, should the situation not go as planned, and Shaikh Saqr directly asks my 489

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father for assistance, we will have our Defense Forces on alert to aid him.”

“I understand. Who will speak with Shaikh Saqr? It can’t be Majid.”

At the mention of Majid, Shaikh Mohammed looks perplexed.

“Tell me what Majid has to do with this, and why you don’t want my father to contact him?”

“As far as the coup, he’s probably not involved, but we still can’t trust him considering we believe he’s been working closely with Nic’s drug smuggling. His introduction of Nic and Scotty La Rouche to the Shah of Iran most likely set the stage for this scheme to develop.”

“I understand. Have you spoken to Shaikh Saqr’s advisor?”

“Not yet, as I wanted to get your father’s support first and hear Shaikh Saqr’s response to your talks with him.”

“My father and I will speak to Shaikh Saqr immediately, and, if necessary, my father will return to meet him. He is a good friend to us and Dubai, and we want to help him.”

“Thank you. I’ll be staying at the Queen Hotel in Aldershot until I hear from you.”

Standing, Mohammed announces, “I must go, but I will call you at your hotel as soon as we speak with Shaikh Saqr. Your driver should be out front.”

“Again, thank you for seeing me. I’ll wait for your call.” **** Back in his hotel room, Lou calls his London lawyer, Carl Conetti, at his home. “Carl, I need to come by the office tomorrow and collect the two new additional documents we spoke about for Scotty La Rouche to sign for Canuck Petroleum Company Inc., and Canuck Gulf Petroleum Ltd., regarding termination of the Ras Al Khaimah concession and repayment of the family’s loans. Your brother Tony has the bank accounts you need to put in the agreements. I hope to leave Tuesday, so can you have them 490

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ready Monday afternoon?” After hearing the response, Lou says, “Great, I’ll see you tomorrow,” and hangs up the phone.

Lying on the bed while waiting for his call from Shaikh Mohammed, Lou mentally reviews the meeting he just had with him and his father. Recalling his first introduction to Shaikh Rashid more than two years ago, he remembers the Ruler appeared to be a man of simple needs, an honorable man projecting a sense of nobleness, yet displaying a closeness with his Bedou traditions and skills.

Seeing Shaikh Rashid today reaffirmed his opinions back then, and his assertion that being a Bedou, born into desert hardship, his ability to plan for the future is a sixth sense. It is this rare extra sense, coupled with his ability to trade and barter, that gives him an edge when deciding on Dubai’s future.

Staring at the hotel room ceiling, Lou recalls leaving that first meeting with the instinctual impression that Rashid is different.

He is like one of the characters in the childhood stories his mother read to him about the wise and judicious biblical kings, such as Solomon. It seems these kings had a special intelligence and sensitivity toward their subjects that made them wise and benevolent monarchs, the difference between authentic royalty and a man who is just a king by title only. Shaikh Rashid is a modern-day King Solomon.

How does his son compare? Having seen and interacted with Mohammed much more than his father, Lou believes Mohammed is more suited to the modern world. But he also senses that Mohammed has inherited his father’s Bedou DNA, giving him that rare extra intuition of the desert nomad, allowing for him to straddle both worlds. Having grown into an adult in the modern one, Mohammed has the advantage.

As Lou silently gives thanks that Shaikh Mohammed will eventually become Ruler and carry on his father’s tasks, he is startled out of his mental musing zone by the ring of the phone.

“Mr. Falconi. There’s a call for you.”

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“Thank you, put it through.”

“Hello, Shaikh Mohammed. Yes, I’ll call Shaikh Saqr’s advisor, Toufiq Abdul Kazim, right away. Please thank Shaikh Rashid for speaking to Shaikh Saqr for me and for his support.”

Breaking the connection, he dials the front desk and asks the operator to dial a number in Monte Carlo.

“Good afternoon, Toufiq, this is Luigi Falconi.”

“I have been expecting your call. I just received a call from Shaikh Saqr, and I’ve just booked tickets to return to Ras Al Khaimah on Tuesday.”

“Let me know your MEA flight from Beirut and I’ll join your flight there. We can talk on the plane on our way to Dubai.”

“Yes, we need to talk face-to-face before I see His Highness.

Give me your hotel fax number and I’ll send my flight details to you.” **** Checking the time, Lou calculates that Sunday dinner is over at Zio Fabio’s. It’s still early enough to call him and then Meyer in Vegas. With two families committed, Lou wants to fill in his Capo de Capi, making sure the third tribe in this triumvirate, the Falconis, are well versed in what to expect when Meyer visits at the end of the month.

After talking with his Uncle Fabio and Meyer, and receiving Toufiq’s flight fax, Lou decides there is no reason to stay in Aldershot. He advises the hotel clerk he will be checking out and requires a car to drive him to the Dorchester in London. **** On Monday morning, Lou takes a leisurely walk to the law offices of Conetti & Shire. He spends the morning reviewing the first set of documents Carl had prepared in July, terminating the Ras Al Khaimah Concession and entering a new one in the Musandam.

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“This looks fine, Carl. How are we doing on the new ones that Scotty La Rouche needs to sign?”

“My assistant just needs to retype them, and we can review after lunch.” Offering his legal opinion, Carl comments, “These are pretty onerous conditions for Scotty to agree to. You’re going to have to twist his arm a bit.”

“I think I’ll have to twist more than an arm, Carl, but Scotty will sign.”

“Just don’t tell me what you twist. I don’t want to know.”

“Carl, if you don’t mind, I need to do some shopping. I’ll be back in a few hours to go over the new documents.”

“That’s fine. I’ll order in so my assistant and I can have everything ready when you return.”

“Do you know where I can find a good jeweler?”

From the front office, Carl’s assistant Mary Margaret yells out, “Just have the cabbie take you to Hatton Garden. You’ll find what you’re looking for there.”

“Thank you.” **** Upon returning to Carl’s office, Lou is immediately confronted by Mary Margaret.

“Can I see the ring?” she sheepishly asks.

“What gave me away?” He smiles as he removes a leather box from his pocket.

“You have that ‘I’m in love look’ this visit. I haven’t seen that before.”

Lou opens the box. “Very perceptive, Mary Margaret. Her hands are about the same as yours. Would you mind trying it on for size?”

She slips it on her finger and holds her left hand up to the light. “It’s just beautiful,” she says, as Carl walks in.

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married,” jokes Carl to the laughs of his audience. He then turns to Lou. “Are you sure you’re ready for this, Lou?” “I am, but not sure if she is. We’ll find out in a few weeks.

I’ll let you know how it goes.”

“Come in and let’s review these agreements so you can get on your way tomorrow morning.” **** Tuesday August 8, 1967

After checking in for his MEA flight from Heathrow to Beirut Lou heads for the First-Class lounge.

“Welcome back, Mr. Falconi,” the desk attendant greets. “If there is anything you need, please let me know?”

“Actually, there is. I’m meeting a business associate in your lounge in Beirut who will continue on to Dubai with me. Can you arrange for us to sit together on the flight?”

“Of course, just give me his name.”

After takeoff Lou has a few drinks, eats a lite lunch, and falls into a deep slumber. Upon landing in Beirut, he heads for the first-class lounge to find Toufiq.

Toufiq, sitting in an isolated corner, spots Lou entering the lounge, stands up and waves to get his attention.

Lou smiles and walks to join the advisor. “Toufiq, how are you?”

“Concerned and anxious to hear directly from you as to what His Highness conveyed to me on the phone, and to know why you didn’t come to me directly.”

“I’m sorry about the subterfuge, but this is such a sensitive situation that even though Pat Riley assured me of your loyalty to Shaikh Saqr, I wanted the advice of Shaikh Mohammed and Shaikh Rashid before I approached you. I’m sorry if I offended you, but my first obligation was to protect Shaikh Saqr.”

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During the hour before boarding, Lou goes through the same explanation that he gave to Shaikh Rashid.

Once settled into their three-hour flight, Toufiq expresses his concern about the plan proposed, yet already agreed upon, by the two Rulers. “You know that even if you stop the Shah from taking the islands this time, he will eventually try again.”

“Yes, I understand. It’s the same final outcome, just as you explained to me after we met Shaikh Saqr and he told me about the Shah taking over the Abu Musa concession. That’s why the best course of action for His Highness and our family is to terminate the concession with Ras Al Khaimah now and give Shaikh Saqr generous compensation. We can then sign a new oil exploration agreement for an area in the Musandam. I’ll give you copies of the agreement for you to review when we land.

“Right now, our first priority and main purpose of the plan we proposed is to stop Shaikh Khalil’s coup in Ras Al Khaimah.

My partner Sam has set up a ‘strategy room’ in a suite at the Bustan Hotel in Dubai. We have a joint meeting of the different cells on the seventeenth. Each cell will present their role in the plan so it can be reviewed and critiqued by the entire team. It would be helpful to us, and informative for you, to be there. You know the politics of the Gulf better than all of us and can give us your insight into problems we may not be anticipating.”

“I’ll be there. Let me know what time and room number,” Toufiq replies as he reaches to close his window shade and reclines his seat.

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Chapter 34 Planning the Strategy Thursday August 17, 1967

Suite 400 in the Bustan Hotel looks like a war room with maps, team lists, and leaders with their assignments plastered on the walls of the main sitting room. The furniture is moved aside and replaced by a conference table seating sixteen.

As Lou and Toufiq enter, the bustle of the planning sessions goes silent.

“Gentlemen, and lady, sorry to interrupt you, but let me introduce you to Mr. Toufiq Abdul Kazim, advisor to His Highness Shaikh Saqr.” While the expats look up from their work, Mohammed and Abdulla immediately walk over to greet their respected comrade.

“Please, everyone, continue what you were doing. Mr. Abdul Kazim is just here as an observer and to give us advice.”

Going around the table, Lou and Toufiq are introduced to each team, then stand behind them listening to their discussions.

At the closest end of the table, Josh and Frankie discuss details of the towing of the Iranian drilling rig from Bandar Lingeh to the CGP Drilling location, and specifications of the vessel that McDermott will be using to pull the rig into position.

The two skilled divers concentrate their discussion on a crude diagram laid out on the table.

“What does this represent?” Toufiq asks.

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Responding, Frankie explains, “It’s a schematic of the tow lines and hook-ups that connect the floating jack-up platform to the tug vessel.”

Nodding, Toufiq moves to the middle of the table.

“This is Luca Luchetti. He’s in charge of media, and this is his assistant Tim Johnson, who is coordinating the filming.”

“What type of filming are you planning?” asks Toufiq.

“Tim will be on the island with one full color film cameraman and one cameraman with the new Sony Porta-Pak black and white video recorder, and a still camera, to cover every contingency.

They’ll take footage and photos of the mercenary landing and defense of the island by the Ras Al Khaimah national forces for release to the major networks—NBC, ABC and CBS. We want to make sure we cover everything.”

“Including our ass,” Tim chimes in with a big laugh.

“Yes, we definitely need to cover that,” Toufiq replies with a smile.

“Mr. Toufiq, the intent is to film and photograph the mercenary landing and defenses by the Ras Al Khaimah tribesmen, or Bedou Brigade, as we’re calling them. It should be a bloodless takeover attempt with some shots fired, mostly for the cameras.”

“It sounds like a Spaghetti Western,” Toufiq says dryly.

“This is Luca Luchetti Spaghetti. Luca here is the Cecil B. DeMille of Arabia,” Tim says with a grin.

Toufiq reaches over Luca’s shoulder and asks, “May I read this?” as he picks up a paper titled Press Release covered with red ink edits.

“It’s a press release I’m working on. Once the invaders are rounded up and loaded for transport to Ras Al Khaimah, Shaikh Saqr will make a statement to the press about how the valiant RAK tribesmen stopped the foreign takeover of the island.”

“The translation into Arabic can be very sensitive. Who will be doing it?”

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Before Luca answers, Lou responds, “Our friend Pat Riley.

He’s working with Luca on the drafts, but we need you to do the final review.”

“Can I take this with me and make some suggestions?”

“I’m sorry, Toufiq, but no papers can be removed from this room. If you can come by and work with Luca on these, it would be greatly appreciated.”

“I shall do that. Luca, when you and Pat have the English and Arabic wording that you are comfortable with, let me know and I’ll come by and review it with you.”

“Thank you. That would be wonderful. We’d really appreciate your input.”

At the end of the table, Sam, Mohammed al Qassim, and Abdulla abu Ali, the two Ras Al Khaimah officers in Shaikh Saqr’s Security Force, review the training program for the two hundred tribesmen who will infiltrate the Greater Tunb Island.

As they approach, Sam stands and shakes hands with his Ras Al Khaimah friend.

Toufiq and Lou listen while Sam, in a mix of Arabic and English explains, “Mohammed, we must move into position at night and stay under camouflage shelters during the day to prevent being spotted by Iranian air reconnaissance. All defenses have to be in place by midnight, the day before the rig towing starts. The only daytime movements on the island are to be the normal fishermen and residents as well as the few policemen stationed there.”

“Who is monitoring the fishermen and other residents or workers there?” Abdulla asks.

“Four of the policemen are the Ruler’s undercover security, so they will observe the fishermen and others to make sure there are no Iranian collaborators,” Sam explains. “Remember, no uniforms. We want the world to see a band of local tribesmen, whose allegiance is to their Ruler, defending the island.”

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“I’m glad to see a Brit involved—someone who understands the colonial mentality,” Toufiq comments.

“Bygone days,” Sam says. “But, unfortunately, not a bygone mentality for the British government. I’ll keep these Yanks straight regarding the UK’s political plans.”

Seated at a desk in the rear of the room, a woman works with an IBM Selectric typewriter and paper shredder.

Toufiq is drawn to the attractive lady, a fish alone in a sea of testosterone. “And who might you be, madam?” he asks in a gentlemanly manner.

“I’m the sergeant at arms, the security officer, the chief organizer, and, most importantly, the only one who can type,” responds Felicity. She points at Lou. “And, for now, his girlfriend.”

“I’m Toufiq. Pleased to meet you.”

“I’m Felicity Maris. Pleased to meet you also.”

Walking around to the back of her chair, Lou puts his hands on both of her shoulders, indicating possession and marking his territory as a “no go” area. “This skilled lady is the most important member of the team. She’s on loan from our friends at McDermott.”

“I shall be visiting often in the next few weeks. I’m sure you’ll get used to seeing me around,” Toufiq says with a smile.

“When you arrive, please use the house phone to call this room. When I answer, say Operation B&B and your first name only so I know you’re coming. We don’t let anyone in unless they’ve been vetted as you have.”

“Of course. What does your code name mean?”

“Operation Bedouin Brigade, my creative contribution,” Flick proudly says with a smile.

“Very good. I must get back to Ras Al Khaimah, but can we talk a minute, Lou, before I leave?”

“Of course. There’s a couple of chairs in the master bedroom.”

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Turning the chairs to face each other, Luigi and Toufiq take a seat. “It looks like you have covered every contingency, but I still don’t understand how stopping the takeover of the island will expose the coup attempt by Shaikh Khalil.”

“Under interrogation, the leader of the mercenaries, Mike Hoare, will expose who hired him to land on the island and the fact that Iran was to land troops under the guise of removing his team with the intent to stay on the island as a protector. Iran will never be mentioned and will deny any involvement. The US will have proof of Iran’s involvement but will not use it publicly.”

“Sounds complicated. I hope it works. I’ll come by again next week to assist Luca. I need to approve all the press releases, as they must be issued under my name, as spokesman and advisor for Shaikh Saqr,” Toufic says.

“Of course,” Lou agrees and walks him to the door. **** Sunday, August 20, 1967

Exiting their car in the McDermott guest parking lot, Frankie and Josh enter the reception area and ask for Ed Stroller, Offshore VP. Hearing the sound of boots clicking on the concrete hall floor, they look up to see their friend and fellow diver walking toward them. A handsome towering man, he looks like the ex-football player he is, and the type of guy who should be an oil company executive. Watching the imposing figure walking toward them, Josh remarks, “Glad he’s a friend and fellow diver.”

“And also, a good customer of MOMS,” Frankie adds.

“Hey, Ed!” Josh yells down the hall. “Where you going with those cowboy boots? To a rodeo?”

“Yep, I’m gonna wrangle a couple of Yankees.”

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Standing up, Frankie holds out his hand. “Hi, Ed. Thanks for letting Josh and me look over your tow tug, the Dana Marguerite.”

“My pleasure, Frankie. Does Canadian Gulf Petroleum want a full inspection before the tow? The Iranian National Oil Company has already done one.”

“No, they just want MOMS to do a walk through. Love the vessel’s name.”

“She was originally just called Marguerite, which means ‘pearl’ in French, but when we brought her to the Gulf, we thought it would be nice to add the Dana, which in Arabic also means ‘pearl,’ as a courtesy to our hosts. In the old days, this Gulf was famous for its pearling industry.”

“Come on, we can go out to the jetty and do a walkaround.”

Familiar with the marine industry, Frankie comments on the great shape and good maintenance of the tugboat. “Can we see the towing winch on the aft deck?”

“Sure, follow me. She’s a big one,” Ed says as they walk to the rear of the tug.

“Damn! She is a big one,” Josh repeats in amazement.

“That’s one hell of a big spool of steel wire cable.”

“Twenty-five thousand feet of two-inch wire weighing more than ten tons, plus another fifty thousand pounds for the machinery and supporting steel work that takes up twenty square feet of deck space.”

“Damn, Ed, that’s almost five miles of cable. And just this one cable does the pulling?” Josh asks.

“Just one cable, but lots of rigging at each end. For the size of this rig and this type of water, it will probably tow twentyfive hundred feet, about half a mile, behind the tug. The rigging is quite sophisticated. First, we connect a spring line between the main cable and the tug to absorb any sudden pulling or slack if the rig hits waves over three feet. We then connect four other cables, two on each side of the bow of the rig. Since it’s 501

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a triangular, three-leg jack-up rig, it will tow like a boat with a pointed bow. If the winch goes down, the tow stops, and the rig becomes a marine navigation problem.”

“How fast can you tow the rig?”

“If the wind and water are calm, and some of the heavy equipment has been removed, probably about three to four nautical miles per hour. The big concern is that the Bander Lingeh port is only thirty feet deep. The sides of the rig are almost twenty-one feet, so we need to have the legs jacked up quite high to clear the bottom. Unless the rig is perfectly balanced, the rig could easily tip with all that weight above it,” explains Ed. “If the legs are jacked up that high, how much of the base or side of the rig is under water?” Frankie asks.

“Our engineers have estimated the rig’s weight and they calculate that about ten feet will be below water and twelve above the waterline to the freeboard deck.”

“It sounds like good weather is needed. What’s the forecast for next week?” Josh asks.

“The weather looks good. If everything is right, we hope to leave Bandar Lingeh about eleven on the morning of the twentyninth.”

“Do you just do a straight-line tow to the drilling site?”

Frankie asks.

“Not sure yet. A straight-line tow is simpler, but that keeps us in the shipping lanes longer than I’d like. We’re looking at a towing route that can minimize time in those lanes.”

“That’s good. Get out of the way before the tankers come in the early morning daylight.”

“Once we confirm the route, we’ll notify Marine Navigation centers in the Gulf so they can warn ships.”

“This winch looks like it’s in tip top shape. Nothing more we need to see. McDermott will send our report to Canuck Gulf Petroleum and copy you.”

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“Thanks, guys. When are we getting wet again? I’m sure gonna miss diving off the Puss and Hoots.”

“We miss her, too,” replies Frankie. “As soon as this drilling starts, we’ll be free as birds—or rather fish.”

Walking back to the reception area, Ed waits while Josh and Frankie return their visitor’s passes, then he walks them to the exit.

“Come by the Ten Tola, and I’ll buy you a beer or two,” invites Frankie.

“And dinner,” Ed adds.

“Yes, and dinner.”

“I would sure like to see how they prepare for a rig move.

Any chance I can ride out on the tug when she goes to Iran for the pre-move preparations, just for a look?” Josh asks Ed. “Security’s tight, but I can issue you a McDermott ID card with the title of inspector on it. The tug is leaving tomorrow and will stay there until the tow. You can chopper out with me early Wednesday morning, but you’ll have to hitch a ride back to Dubai as I’ll be staying.”

“Man, that is so cool. Thanks Ed. Now I also owe you a dinner.”

“Yeah, and I’m gonna still have to pay for it. You’ll just put it on your expense account,” a smiling Frankie chides Josh.

Back in the privacy of their car, Josh smiles and looks at Frankie. “Looks like this is gonna be easier than we thought.

We just need to take out the winch when they are in the shipping lanes.”

“As the old saying goes, we need to throw a wrench in the works. I’ll speak to Lou about it. He seems to have some contacts that might have some ideas on how we can do it.”

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**** Later in the afternoon, back in the war room, Lou, Sam and Flick relax drinking a coffee. Sam releases a deep breath. “I can’t wait to get this shit over so we can go back to running the Ten Tola. I thought I left the military part of my life.”

“It will be over soon, partner. How’s Mohammed and Abdulla doing with the Bedou Brigade?”

“Actually, very good. They’ve selected men from their villages and friends of Saqr. The weapons supplied by Dubai are a bit obsolete, but we really don’t need a lot of automatics. They did offer a couple of old Howitzers, but I took three mortars instead. They’re lightweight and portable and anyone can shoot them. We don’t expect any resistance, but I thought a few indirect mortar shells landing on the beach would make for good news coverage for Luca.”

Lou nods. “What’s your thought on how to best disable the tow line on the McDermott tug? Is there any way to do it without explosives or can we use something that would limit the damage to just the winch and not cause too much destruction to the tugboat or people on board?”

“If you use Limpets along the winch cable, it won’t damage the tug, or injure the crew,” Sam says. “Can we get any more Limpets like what you and Frankie used on the Puss and Hoots?”

Flick immediately looks up and stares at Lou but says nothing.

Lou’s eyes radiate daggers toward Sam to draw attention to his verbal blunder.

Sam frowns. “I need to check on the bar. We can talk about this later with Frankie and Josh.”

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**** Thursday August 24, 1967

The McDermott tugboat Dana Marguerite has already been in Bandar Lingeh for two days along with other service vessels and numerous professional riggers and specialists preparing the wet tow of the jack-up rig to the Ras Al Khaimah drill site. Equipment is offloaded, stability and anchor calculated, and safety inspections scheduled, including contingencies for weather and rough water.

Thanks to Ed, Josh is wearing a McDermott ID showing him to be an inspector, giving him free reign to walk around the rig and the tugboat. Especially interested in the sides of the rig that are under the water, which contains crew quarters, workshops, cafeteria, and the preloaded tanks, Josh explores the interior, which is designed with watertight compartments so a flooded area can be shut off, keeping a tilting rig afloat, although not easily manageable for movement. Back on deck, he looks over the sides of the rig and notes there are welded cleats about every three feet down the sides near where the two sides join in a point.

Joining in on a company/client pre-job briefing, Josh takes notes.

After the meeting adjourns, having heard all he needs, Josh hitches a helicopter ride back to Dubai and goes directly to the war room with his new information. **** Arriving at the Bustan Hotel, Josh stops at the house phone and calls Suite 400 to let Flick know he’s coming up. Inside the room, the team leaders are eagerly working on their assignments.

“Where’s your team, Sam?” Josh asks when he enters.

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“They’re in the field in Ras Al Khaimah training the Bedouin Brigade. I’m heading out tomorrow. The next time you’ll see us will be on the island when this is all over.”

“Learn anything new from your inspection?” Frankie asks.

“Looks like the twenty-ninth is a go. That night the moon will be in a waning crescent phase with forty-two percent illumination. At eleven p.m., McDermott will begin towing the jack-up drilling rig from Bandar Lingeh to the CGP Drilling location. It will be routed to minimally cross shipping lanes, going southeast about a mile from the Greater Tunb Island. At the rate of three-to-four nautical miles per hour, that first portion of the tow will last about three-to-four hours.

“The tug will then exit the shipping channel and head southwest toward Abu Musa. They want to pass out of the shipping lanes during the early morning hours to avoid heavy traffic. Navigation warnings have been issued to commercial vessels.”

“Josh, this means that you and Frankie will need to do your job when it’s still in the shipping lanes, about three hours after the towing starts,” Sam says.

“Roger that.”

“What else ya got?” Lou asks.

“A representative of the Iranian government confirms that an Iranian naval vessel will be nearby to accompany the rig and assist if problems should arise.”

“That must be the destroyer our inside source tells me has the two hundred Iranian marines onboard ready to land on the Greater Tunb Island,” Lou says. “The Iranians will also have smaller, inflatable zodiac-type boats or hovercraft for quick maneuvering around the tug and other vessels. They’re basically coast guard teams watching over the Western crews. They’ll probably use those to drop off the mercenaries on the island also.”

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Lou turns to Frankie. “Have you and Josh worked out the details of your assignment?”

“We’ve decided that Limpets on the tow cables halfway between the towboat and the rig is the best option. It will disable the tow for a few hours, but that does not give us enough time, so we need to disable the rig and cause a navigation obstruction.”

“Sam, with your knowledge of explosives, what do you think?”

“I suggest using the smaller mines—the Clam, as they are only two and a half inches in diameter and will hold onto the two-inch cable better. You might put a larger, four-inch Limpet on the cable just for backup. I’d use the Limpets on the below water sides of the rig. Both types use the strongest magnets ever developed, so they stick to anything. Just one Limpet will make a small hole in the steel plating of the rig and take in water, but strategically placing three or four in a circle pattern will put a big gap in the side and take in water quickly, making it list immediately on that corner until the watertight compartment is flooded. The rig will still float, but it will have to be anchored until repairs are done before they can move it again. That could take a day or two.”

“I don’t know anything about marine ordinance, but placing the mines on a moving cable and rig seems complex. What’s your plan for that, Frankie,” Lou asks?

“Because the rig will be moving between three-to-four knots, Josh and I have calculated that we need to get in the water upstream of the tow cable and swim at an angle toward it. Once we reach the cable, we can tether ourselves on a short rope line from our weight belts to the cable using a large carabiner. The tricky part will be to set the Limpets. We plan to let the cable travel past us until we reach the point where we want to set the mines. I’ve asked the rigging department at MOMS if they can design and machine a lock clamp we can use to hold onto 507

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the two-inch cable. They came up with a prototype that works great.”

Continuing, Frankie explains, “We select a point on the cable and lock on the tow line then we place the mines and set the timers for thirty minutes. Unclamping from the cable, we again tether the snap hook carabiner to allow us to swim down the cable line to the rig, which will actually be moving toward us. Once we are at the rig, we can disengage the snap hook from the cable and swim down to the leg, latch on to it, and set the Limpets on both sides of the base of the rig. The timer setting for the rig Limpets will be determined by how long it takes us to get to the rig. Minimum is ten minutes so we can get our asses away from there.”

“Have you tested to see if it will work?”

“We did some test dives, and it went well. The worst-case scenario is that we can’t set the Limpets on the moving cable, so we just blow a bigger hole in the side of the rig.”

“You and Josh have to do it just before the tow leaves the shipping lanes and is closest to the Greater Tunb Islands between two or three a.m., so the rig becomes a hazard. I’ll arrange to get the Limpets and Clams. Anything else you need?”

“We need someone to take us out from the island in the inflatable so we can get as close as possible to the rig without being detected. We’ll offload and swim underwater to the rig.”

Quietly sitting at the table during the discussion, Tim volunteers, “I can do that. Luca can handle the cameramen in case I don’t get back before the action starts.”

“What about a pickup?” Lou asks Josh. “Can Tim do that also?”

“Too dangerous,” Josh replies. “We’ll swim toward the island underwater until we exhaust our air supply, and then we’ll dump the tanks and snorkel the rest of the way.”

Lou looks at Sam. “Are you able to have all of your men on the island before midnight on the twenty-ninth?”

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“We need three dark nights so we can move the defenders to the island this Saturday. The moon will be brighter, but we’ll land on the west side of the island, out of view of the Iranian side of the Gulf. We’re setting up camouflage and barasti shelters and latrines to keep the men out of view as well as sheltered from the heat during the day. What about communications, Lou?” “I’ve been able to obtain a secure radio frequency that the Iranians and British don’t have access to,” Lou says. “Just remember, the party that provided it will probably monitor it, so still watch what you say.”

“Like, ‘fuck the Yanks,’” Tim says and laughs his loud laugh.

Everyone else joins in—except Lou. Lou shakes his head. “Well, so much for that secret. I’ll give everyone the frequency information by Friday.”

“What about you Luca? How are you and Tim doing with the media,” Lou asks his cousin?

“I have the press releases ready and approved in English and Arabic by Pat and Toufiq. Tim and I plan to ride out to the island with the two local camera crews on Monday night.”

“How are you getting out to the island?”

“You can come with Josh and me,” Frankie offers. “We have plenty of room in our zodiac for the four of you and equipment.

We’ll use the same boat for Tim to take us to the rig.”

“Perfect. What about the press releases? How will you get those out to the media?”

“Flick will be here in the war room to issue the releases by telex. She’ll have a radio, so I can contact her when to issue each of them to the Arabic and English news outlets.”

“Felicity, do you need anything?” Lou asks.

“I should be good. I have a radio and a backup one to use for our secure communications. I have a third radio that can tune into the McDermott frequency, so I can monitor the rig move and then pass it on to our team via our frequency. I can even 509

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monitor the open maritime frequency the US Navy uses when they are patrolling the Gulf.”

“Getting timely information to everyone is paramount. Glad to see you’re on top of it. Thank you,” Lou says with an admiring smile.

Like a football coach priming his team for the big game Lou claps his hands, and using his Capo voice says, “Great job gang.

Everything sounds good. Let’s try to make life look as normal as possible for the next few days. Spend time with your families and on your jobs. If anything comes up, you can always contact me through the Ten Tola.”

510

Chapter 35 The Bedouin Brigade Tuesday, August 29, 1967

Onboard the MOMS entertainment and fishing boat the Big Easy, named after a famous 1900’s dance hall in NOLA, dinner is being served to Shaikh Khalil bin Saqr, Scotty, Maccie La Rouche, Nic Nicandro, Meyer Lansky, and his two other NOLA guests, Sammy “Scaramouch” Scarlatti and Tony Barlotto, who accompanied Meyer as his “just in case” team. Knowing Maccie, Khalil and Nic are no match for Meyer’s bodyguards.

Lou calmly plays host, offering drinks, cigars, and the occasional joke to his private dinner guests. As he walks behind each chair of the three traitors, filling their glasses with the Dom Perignon, he thinks to himself, I could easily garrote each, one-by-one and end this right now, but I need to stick to the plan.

Arrangements have been made between Meyer and Nic to meet in Beirut to travel together to Ras Al Khaimah for the rig move and well spudding. Before leaving the US, Albert Abuzian, Meyer’s partner in the Casino du Liban, tipped off Meyer that Nic is in Beirut, but seemed reluctant to travel to the Gulf with Meyer and suggested that Meyer err on the side of caution and bring a couple of soldiers just in case.

Timing their dinner cruise to rendezvous with the Dana Marguerite when the tow begins, the guests eat lobster and filet mignon, drink champagne, and banter in friendly conversation.

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Sitting at the head of the table with Shaikh Khalil to his right and Meyer on his left, Lou scans the guests, hoping that if all goes as planned, this will be the last supper for some of them. **** Meanwhile, under cover of darkness, Sam stealthy moves the last of the Bedouin Brigade and equipment onto the island.

At midnight, he and his aides, Mohammed and Abdulla, will each gather their team inside the small, blacked-out police station, to once more review the strategy for the impending invasion. The plan is that Sam, Mohammed, and one hundred of the defenders will meet Hoare’s men full frontal on the east side of the island. Eighty of Abdulla’s men will take beach positions, with forty men on the north and forty on the south side of the landing beach, putting the invaders in a pincer and covering any retreat once they move forward up the beach. Another group, made up of ex-pearl divers, will act as frogmen and prevent any water retreat by the invaders. Once the mortars are in position, Sam orders the floodlights to be put in place facing the beaches to blind the mercenaries and assist Tim’s cameramen once the mercenaries land.

Meanwhile at ten p.m., Frankie cruises to the island with Josh, Luca, Tim, and two cameramen. A mile from the beach, he shuts off the outboard motor, and they quietly paddle the inflatable to the west side of the island. When the Zodiac hits the beach, Josh soundlessly disembarks into the water and pulls the boat onto the dry sand so the passengers and equipment can quietly exit.

Luca and Tim lead the filmmakers to a pre-arranged blackedout shelter where they can rest and later check their cameras and lights without being seen.

Setting the anchor in the sand, Frankie and Josh leave their stored explosives in the boat and join Luca’s team in the shelter for a few winks before they have to leave on their mission.

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**** In the Bustan Hotel suite, Flick monitors the McDermott/ INOC and Maritime radio frequencies so she can securely convey the movements of the rig to Sam, Luca, and Toufiq Abdul Kazim, as well as to the handset in Lou’s Big Easy cabin.

Unknown to Flick, all of her communications are also being monitored by the USS VOGE, a Frigate on Protection of Shipping duty to assist US-flagged merchant-marine ships in the Gulf, operating as a part of the US Navy Middle East Force out of the British base in Bahrain. Their routine is usually guiding oil tankers from the Northern Gulf, south through the Straits of Hormuz. As a part of its duty, the Frigate stays in close proximity to the Dana Marguerite and in radio contact with the tug’s captain, Steve “Toby” Tobin. Also listening to the chatter aboard the VOGE is a covert CIA agent. **** In Ras Al Khaimah, Shaikh Saqr, his young son Shaikh Saud, and Toufiq, along with other aides and close family and allies of the Ruler, board the Royal dhow to sail towards Bander Lingeh to watch the start of the rig move, and later to cruise to the Greater Tunb so Shaikh Saqr can lead his fellow tribesmen in defending the island against the mercenary landing. **** Under the command of Admiral Farajollah Rasaei, the Imperial Iranian Navy Destroyer, the IIN Mohammad Reza Shah, is also slowly cruising near the port of Bandar Lingeh observing the movements of the government-owned and Iranian-flagged oil rig, ready to offer protection and assistance. Another duty of the ship is to deliver two hundred Iranian marines to the Greater Tunb two days after Mike Hoare and his armed force take over the island.

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In the port, twenty-five men, dressed in the uniforms of the Iranian marines but without military markings, board six Iranian hovercraft with their military equipment and rations for their twoday occupation of the Greater Tunb. To confuse any observers, their crafts are accompanied by seven other naval hovercraft to appear as part of a small stand-by flotilla ready to assist the rig should they encounter any problems during the tow. **** Unable to sleep, Josh and Frankie walk over to visit Sam and see how his preparations are going. Just as they arrive, Sam gets the radio call from Flick that McDermott is starting the tow.

Noting the time of 11:11 p.m., Frankie and Josh synchronize their watches while Sam remarks, “Eleven-eleven. That’s what they call an angel number—a good omen. It means stay positive and listen to your intuition.”

Frankie and Josh hang with Sam, listening to Flick’s updates on the radio.

During the next hour, the reports are routine and the tow goes as planned, on time and on the route laid out.

Seeing Luca and Tim scouting locations for the best positions for the cameramen to set up tripods and other equipment, Sam walks toward them to advise on the floodlight positions and suggest where they will get the best exposure to film what is soon to take place.

Close to one a.m., Sam hears Flick calling to advise that the USS VOGE has contacted the Big Easy captain, asking if they need any navigation or other assistance. While Captain Toby is talking to the USS VOGE on the McDermott radio, Flick holds that radio to the mouthpiece of their secure radio for Sam to hear the exchange.

“Great to see you guys are out and around,” Captain Toby replies. “Things are going well, but it’s nice to have you close by, especially with those I-rainians zipping around in those 514

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hovercraft. Can you radio the captain of their ship to make them back off? I just checked the monitor, and the towing cable is taut, within the maximum tow load, and the tow speed is almost three knots, but if one of those guys hits the cable, we’re fucked.

OVER.” “Roger that, Captain Toby. This is a big deal for them. They even have an Admiral on board to give the orders. I’d love telling him to fuck off. OVER and OUT.” “You hear that, Sam?” “Yep, thanks, Felicity. Keep us posted.”

Stepping out of the pilothouse onto the deck, Captain Toby looks to the rear of his tug and sees the USS VOGE navigate behind the rig and draw closer to the IIN Mohammad Reza Shah.

Returning to the bridge and still tuned into the Navy frequency, Captain Toby listens as Captain Mike Anderson of the USS VOGE contacts the Iranian ship. In his typical Brooklyn manner, he orders the ship to, “Pull back your fuckin’ hovercraft at least one mile from the tug and rig.”

Not wanting to harm the relationship with the USA that has provided all the arms and most of the navy ships that make Iran a Middle East military power, Admiral Rasaei swallows his pride and gives the orders for the small craft to pull back as ordered by the US Navy. In broken English, the Iranian radioman replies, “Sorry, sir. Admiral Rasaei apologies for the movements of the hovercraft and has ordered them to draw back as requested.”

Using the request to pull his hovercraft back as opportune, the admiral orders the six craft carrying the twenty-four mercenaries to break off from the others and once out of sight of the USS VOGE to slowly navigate toward the Greater Tunb Island, ready for a 4:00 a.m. landing.

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**** At 1:30 a.m., joined by their boat driver Tim, Josh and Frankie gear up, donning black tight fitting nylon hooded dive suits. As Tim helps blacken their faces with waterproof camouflage paint, the diving duo strap knives to their right legs and Glocks to their left legs.

Tim finishes his paint job, then stands back to admire his work. “Ha, ha. You fuckers look pretty kinky in those outfits.”

Ignoring the remark, Josh addresses Frankie, “Remember, these guns fire underwater, but water is eight-hundred times denser than air and hinders the projectile speed, so you need to be as close to your target as possible.”

“You think I didn’t learn anything in my professional commercial diving training?” Frankie asks, his eyebrow raised.

“Most of the guys in my class were ex-seals.”

“Sorry, no offense, just looking out for you. Lou will burn my ass if I let you get hurt. Tim, can you check with Sam to see if Flick has heard of any changes to the tow?”

Without answering, Tim walks towards Sam and soon returns. “All’s quiet on the Iranian front. No changes.”

“Thanks, buddy. It’s two a.m. Let’s move,” Frankie orders.

Having already geared up with their Fenzy BCD, weights, and the coiled rope line with the carabiners and clamps connected to their weight belt, as well as small watertight flashlights and glow sticks, Tim and Josh board the Zodiac while Frankie retrieves the anchor, puts it in the boat, and gives it a shove off the beach.

Jumping in, he takes a seat next to Josh, and they put their fins on over their rubber booties and help each other with the single tank harness, then strap their masks around their foreheads, ready to pull down.

“Let’s do this. Gentleman, start your engine.” Frankie says.

In about fifteen minutes, they see the lights of the rig, which they know is manned with the rig manager, an INOC engineer, a McDermott engineer, a representative from the oil company 516

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CGP, and a small skeleton crew, most of whom are SAVAK, the Shah’s intelligence and security organization.

“Tim, cruise toward the tug but stay out of their lights. We need to get about a hundred yards ahead of it,” Frankie says.

Doing as ordered, Tim turns and directs his craft toward the Big Easy.

Navigating as instructed, Tim asks Josh, “What do you think, does this look good? The tug’s lights are illuminated about one hundred feet behind the tug.

“Great Tim, if we get in the water here, we have a direct line swim to the cable, just out of the tug’s lights.”

Looking at his watch, Frankie tells Tim, “This is close enough. Cut the engine.”

Completing a final buddy BWARF (Buoyancy, Weight, Releases, Air, Fins) check, the divers pull down their masks and quietly enter the calm, warm water.

Carefully, Tim picks up the first bag of mines as if it were a newborn, and hands it to Josh, then does the same with the other bag for Frankie. “Good luck, guys. I’ll have a cold one waiting when you get back.” Turning to look back, Tim sees no sign of the two divers and heads back to the island to take up his camera supervisor duties. **** Just as the rig starts to leave the Bander Lingeh departure point, the Royal dhow charts their course to the tow route to rendezvous with the Dana Marguerite, then slowly accompanies the rig as it moves southeast. Shortly after, the Big Easy arrives, and the vessels keep pace together with the rig.

Shaikh Saqr, standing toward the bow of his dhow, waves with a reluctant smile to the guests gathered on the aft deck of the MOMS vessel, including his son Shaikh Khalil. Retreating into the suite, His Highness stays for an hour, and then he and Toufiq again exit the enclosure to the bow. Having radioed the 517

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Big Easy that they are heading back to Ras Al Khaimah, from their deck they wave goodbye, and the dhow accelerates heading home.

Once the dhow is out of view of the Big Easy, it changes course toward the Greater Tunb Island, arriving at the same time Frankie and Josh depart. Anchoring in shallow water, the passengers disembark and are shuttled ashore in small fishing boats. After stepping on dry land. the Ruler is guided by waiting tribesmen to Sam. Greeting his Highness and his entourage, Sam immediately summons for Mohammed and Abdulla to join him, and together they accompany the Ruler around the island as he greets the men who make up his security forces. Enthused at seeing that their Shaikh has joined them, the men’s spirits rise in a feeling of tribal and nationalistic camaraderie.

Coming upon the two-inch mortar positions, the Shaikh is pleased to see they are manned by his Bedou tribesmen and asks Sam how they work.

Rather than answering himself, Sam further builds up the spirit of his trainees by asking the two men manning the simple lightweight muzzle-loaded weapon to explain to His Highness how it works.

InArabic, the team demonstrates to His Highness. “The barrel sits on this small baseplate, and I hold it at a pre-determined angle,” explains the first soldier, Ali. “And then I load and fire the round,” the second soldier, Abbas, explains as he holds up one of the cylindrical, fourfinned tail bombs that are dropped into the tube and detonated for his tribal leader to see.

“If we want it to go a shorter or longer distance, I adjust the tube angle,” Ali adds.

“Shukron sadiki,” the shaikh says with a broad smile, and asks his tribesman in Arabic, “how long have you been in the security force?”

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With a smile, Ali proudly responds, “Three weeks ago, we were fishermen, now we are soldiers. We hope His Highness will give us a permanent position with his Security Force.”

Turning to his son Shaikh Saud, Saqr whispers to him, “Make sure the men are recruited to our Security Force.”

Returning to the position of the frontal forces, Mohammed and Abdulla say a short prayer with their Ruler and depart to take up their position. **** Stealthily swimming about twenty feet underwater, Frankie and Josh approach the tow cable just outside of the surface lights of the tug. As planned, they connect their tether lines with the snap hooks and start swimming, pulling their rope line along the cable. Realizing they are moving faster than calculated, Frankie decides their position is good enough, and turns to signal Josh to attach his stop clamp to hold him to the moving cable. Frankie then attaches his stop clamp and both divers hold in place while Josh attaches the two Clams and one Limpet mine on the cable and sets their timers.

Checking his watch, Frankie notes the time—2:35 a.m.

Discarding his now empty bag, Josh reattaches his snap hook, then releases the stop clamp, as Frankie does the same.

They resume their journey down the line toward the rig. A short time later, they see the steel mass moving toward them and prepare to unhook from the line to dive down to the fifteen-foot level and reattach to the latticelike steel beam leg of the rig.

Josh takes the second bag of mines from Frankie, allowing him to more easily navigate underwater and connect to the line first.

Frankie detaches from the cable and dives, grabbing ahold of the rig leg. Winding his tether rope line around a small beam of the leg, he clamps the snap hook on the looped line. Hands now free, he uses a small underwater flashlight to signal Josh to come.

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Seeing the two flashes from his buddy’s light, Josh detaches his snap hook and pushes hard on his fins to propel towards the jacket leg and Frankie. Again, Frankie signals to guide his partner. In the light, Frankie sees that the rush of water is carrying Josh a few feet right of his target. Swimming to the end of his rope line, Frankie reaches out and grabs the back of Josh’s tank harness, pulling him toward the jack-up. Snatching Josh’s dangling tether line, Frankie pulls himself upward on the jacket leg toward the steel base of the rig a few feet above and connects Josh’s snap hook to one of the cleats on the side of the rig.

Once Josh is secure, Frankie climbs back down the jacket leg to disconnect his line and then climbs back up, connecting to the same cleat. Both now secure, Frankie motions for Josh to hand him a Limpet. One by one, Frankie reaches up and places the four mines in a twelve, three, six, and nine position on the steel wall about six feet below the waterline. Having learned his lesson in the Red Sea, he makes sure they are far enough away from each other so as not to interfere with the other mines’ timers.

Frankie checks his watch. They have just fifteen minutes before the mines on the cable blow. Deciding they are not far enough away from the cable blast to avoid the UNDEX or shock waves from that smaller explosion, he decides to set the timers on the Limpets for twenty minutes, five minutes after the cable mines explode, giving him and Josh a little extra time to swim around to the back side and away from the moving rig, getting as far away as possible to avoid the main concussion of both underwater explosions.

To save time, they detach their tethers from their weight belts, leaving them hanging on the cleat, and immediately swim toward the rear of the moving rig. As they swim away, each diver activates a glowstick, releasing a chemical activated green glow to help them see each other and stay together as they descend in the dark water.

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With the rig now past them, they sprint-swim southwest toward Tunb Island. Not hearing but feeling the vibration sound of the explosion from the cable on the bones behind their ears and skull, Frankie and Josh grab each other’s hand to prepare for the concussion of the explosion. As expected, their distance and the smaller explosive charge pushes them through the water like an underwater wave.

Knowing the next explosion will be much greater, they resume their sprint-swim. Soon running out of air, they ditch the dive tanks and resume swimming on the surface. About five hundred feet away from the rig, Josh checks his watch and looks at Frankie. “The big blast will happen in sixty seconds. Float on your back and keep your mouth open to equalize pressure in your ears when the sound hits them.”

Lying on their backs, the reverberation from the larger explosion seems unreal making their ears ring like they have permanent tinnitus. A few seconds later, they are thrust like surfers along the crest of a small tsunami. **** One mile from Tunb Island, Mike Hoare and his team cut their outboard engines and tie ropes to the six hovercrafts, keeping them together while they wait for their orders to land.

Hearing the first explosion, he radios the admiral, asking what has happened and what his orders are.

Getting no reply, he tries a different frequency with the same result. Not sure what to do, he decides to wait. Unknown to Mad Mike, the mysterious guest on the USS VOGE has already ordered Hoare’s radio frequency to be jammed. After the second explosion, Mike tries again, still with no results. Making an infield decision, he tells his men they will make their landing at four a.m. as originally planned.

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**** On the Dana Marguerite, Captain Toby hears the first blast and immediately looks at his monitor and sees the cable is no longer taut but has actually disconnected from the rig. A minute later, his tug vigorously bounces like it’s in a Louisiana hurricane. Immediately cutting his engines, he orders his crew to pull in the cable to see what has caused the break.

At the same time, he answers a radio call from the rig manager, Hisham Pahlavi. “Captain Toby, the rig is uncontrollably moving from side to side, and I’m afraid it may capsize. What should I do?”

An experienced seaman and well versed in offshore emergencies, Captain Toby tells the manager, “Hold tight and the rocking should subside soon. If your crew are not in life vests, make sure they get them on, and drop a safety vessel over the back of the rig. The inertia of the towing will continue to move the rig forward, even without the cable. Order the souls onboard to assemble on deck, and you stay by the radio.”

“Thank you, Captain. Appreciate the advice,” answers Hisham.

Not far away, the Dana Marguerite settles down to a gentle rolling motion just as a larger, second blast occurs. Seeing the flash of light from the rig, Toby radios Hisham, advising him to abandon the rig and to order the men to swim to the lifeboat.

Before doing as advised, Hisham first activates the watertight doors closing off several compartments where the blast occurred, saving the rig from completely sinking. He then sounds the abandon ship signal and runs to the deck to make sure all his passengers are leaving the rig. Once everyone is off, he returns to the control room. **** After the first blast, both the USS VOGE and the IIN Mohammad Reza Shah sound alerts to man battle stations.

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Captain Mike Anderson’s next order is to radio Admiral Farajollah Rasaei. Speaking directly with the admiral, they agree that neither craft is belligerent, just as the second explosion is seen and heard from the bridge of both vessels. The captain and admiral agree their duty now is to rescue any survivors and undertake to protect any commercial marine vessels from the obstacle floating hazardously in the shipping lanes.

Feeling confident in his command, and, with an alternative motive, Captain Anderson speaks with the admiral. “Sir, as you are the superior officer and being close to your country’s territorial waters, I defer to you to take command of a joint Protection of Shipping Operation by both of us.”

“Thank you, Captain, that is gracious of you. I will be happy to assume that duty.”

Captain Anderson smiles at the civilian observer on the bridge with him. “That should keep the Mohammad Reza Shah tied up for several days and prevent them from landing any troops anywhere.”

“Quick thinking, Captain. I’ll advise my people of the situation,” the observer replies and immediately departs for his private radio room.

“Sir,” the first officer addresses Captain Andersen. “I have Captain Toby of the Dana Marguerite on the radio for you.

“Put him through.” **** After the first blast is heard on the Big Easy and the boat starts rocking, Lou heads for the bridge and orders the captain to go directly to the Greater Tunb Island at full speed. Stopping in his cabin, he picks up the secure radio and contacts Flick.

“Looks like our boys did their job,” he says. “We’re heading to the island now. Our guests believe we’re going back to Dubai.

OVER.” 523

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“Please be careful. Call again when you can. I’ll advise Sam. OVER.” Back on deck everyone is shouting in rapid discussion.

“What in the hell was that?” Scott LaRoche asks the assemblage.

“Shit! Something happened to the tow line,” Nic blurts out.

“Gents, don’t worry,” Lou advises. “I’ve ordered our captain to take us back to our dock as soon as possible. We need to get away from whatever is happening. I suggest we go into the lounge.”

Inside the sitting room, the larger second blast shakes the windows and rapidly rocks the vessel, causing more concerned excitement and fear among the passengers.

Once the rocking settled, Lou, with Meyer, Scaramouch Scarlatti, and Tony Barlotto standing next to him, addresses Scotty, Nic, and Shaikh Khalil. “Gentlemen, we’ve had a change of plans and have been requested by His Highness Shaikh Saqr to join him on the Greater Tunb Island. Please be seated on the sofa and get comfortable. We should be there in about twenty minutes.”

Nic races toward Lou, his face contorted in anger.

Tony steps in front of him. “Sit your ass down!” he orders.

Silently joining Khalil and Scotty on the crowded sofa, Nic yells at Lou, “What the fuck is going on? I’m gonna burn your ass once I talk to the partner family Capos about you wasting their money and doing what you want, not what they want.”

Not usually being an aggressive person, Meyer walks toward Nic as if ready to hit him. “Shut your Slavic mouth. You talk too fuckin’ much,” he says.

Lou steps between the two adversaries. “He’s not worth the trouble, Meyer. Wait until we get to the island, and then see how aggressive he is.”

“My father will hear about this abhorrent treatment of his son and successor,” the Crown Prince protests.

Scotty, appearing to be in deep thought, sits quietly.

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Arriving on the west side of the island, the captain takes the Big Easy as close as possible to the shore and drops anchor just as two row boats approach and several of Shaikh Saqr’s security team prepare to board the Big Easy.

Lou leads the traitorous trio to the lounge and orders them to stand and put their hands behind their backs. The first, Scotty, passively, does as instructed and is easily manacled.

Seeing this, Shaikh Khalil verbally objects and wrestles his hands away as his captor tries to shackle him. “Wait until my father hears how you foreign devils are treating the Crown Prince.” Tony easily subdues him, bending his tight arm up behind his back. A painful cry emanates from Khalil and then silence as the plastic cuffs secure his wrists.

Nic, being Nic, swings a left hook at Scaramouch Scarlatti’s jaw, knocking his head backwards but otherwise not fazing him.

As tough as Nic is, he’s no match for Meyer’s boys, and Scarlatti shakes it off and recovers, kicking Nic in his balls. With Tony’s help, they pull Nic’s arms behind his back and roughly place the ties on him.

The Ruler’s security team enter the lounge and takes charge of the captives. Guiding them to their boat they, help them aboard, and row the short way to shore. Lou, Meyer, Sammy, and Tony follow in the Big Easy’s tender. Once offloaded, the group is escorted from the leeward side of the island to the eastern side where Shaikh Saqr and his main forces wait for the inevitable invasion. Seeing the detainees arrive, Toufiq orders Shaikh Khalil to be brought to his father, and Nic and Scotty to be cuffed to a post nearby where they will have a good view of the show. **** After the second explosion, Sam’s men take their positions, waiting for orders to attack the invaders. At the same time, the Bedouin frogmen prepare to enter the water. Thanks to Josh and 525

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Sam’s tactical underwater military experience, the former pearl divers are now military-trained frogmen.

Clad only in a loincloth, the frogmen cover their bodies in oil to protect them from abscesses cause by long periods in salt water, just as they did when pearl diving. Donning their newly issued diver’s belts and sheathed daggers, they move into water up to their necks and spread out across the hundred-yard beach, waiting for the invaders to land.

Three runners wait on the beach, prepared to play the role of a modern-day short distance Pheidippides, and run to advise Sam, Abdulla, and Mohammed that the boats are coming.

At precisely four a.m., Mad Mike Hoare, unable to communicate with his Iranian contact, orders his men to head to shore. Hearing the sound of the engines from the hovercraft, the runners sprint off to their destinations.

Driving their crafts twenty yards up on the beach, Mad Mike and his men disembark and get into position for a frontal assault.

As soon as Hoare’s men start moving forward, the frogmen leave their watery hiding positions and converge on the hovercrafts from the beach, knives in hand, and begin wildly slicing and stabbing at the air-filled pontoons, disabling the six vessels to prevent a water retreat. **** As soon as the intruders hit the beach, Sam orders the generators to be started and floodlights turned on, changing night into day. Temporarily blinded by the sudden bright light, Mad Mike’s men start shooting widely, drop to the ground, and take cover wherever they can to avoid return fire.

Sam turns to Shaikh Saqr. “Your Highness, you need to give the order for your men to attack.”

With his son Saud by his side and other loyal sons nearby, he turns and looks woefully at his Judas, Shaikh Khalil, standing behind him. Taking the microphone while Sam holds the portable 526

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megaphone amplifier, the Ruler loudly yells, “Allahu Akbar – Hujum! Attack.”

Immediately, the frontal forces shoot their single shot rifles and the three mortar teams lob shots just in front of the prone soldiers to deter them from moving forward, and then another three-shot salvo just behind, to stop any thought of flight.

Once the mortar fire stops, Abdulla moves his troops from the North and South to surround the twenty-five men lying and crouching on the ground. Getting close to Mike Hoare and his soldiers, Mohammed hears the Australian English accents of Hoare’s men saying, “I never signed up for this shit!” “Damn, this was supposed to be simple job,” and “What the Fuck!”

With the invaders pinned down and surrounded, Sam hands the bullhorn to young Shaikh Saud and asks him to call ceasefire to the security forces.

Once the firing stops, Sam takes the bullhorn and orders the mercenaries to surrender unconditionally.

Before replying, Mad Mike yells to his men, “It’s over, fellas.

Quick, just like I told you it would be. A fifty grand payday is waiting for all of you, so quit bitching.”

“Fuck, Colonel, I’ve got a bullet in my arm.”

“Well, you get a ten-thousand-dollar bonus.”

“Shit,” one of the mercenaries says to his comrade next to him, “Noah, graze my thigh with your pistol, and I’ll split the ten grand with you.”

The mercenary leader finally replies to Sam’s surrender order.

“This is Colonel Mike Hoare; I accept your terms of surrender.”

“Colonel, please instruct your forces to discard any weapons on the ground, including knives, and then stand up with their hands on their heads.” Once the twenty-four soldiers and their leader are standing, Mohamed orders several of his Security Force to escort the prisoners toward Sam and Shaikh Saqr.

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Standing in front of the Ruler, Colonel Mike Hoare hands Shaikh Saqr his unloaded handgun as a sign of surrender.

Recording it all are Tim’s camera crews.

Seeing the gesture of surrender, Saqr’s Security Forces shoot in the air in celebration of the victory. Already prepared for such a display, which is a typical tribal way of reveling at any joyous occasion, Sam earlier gave orders that any post-battle firing was to be directed over the water to avoid injury from lead coming down from the sky at high velocity.

With the skirmish and surrender finished, the invaders are taken away to be transferred to the prison fort in Ras Al Khaimah, while Mohammed and Abdulla and several of their Security Forces accompany Mad Mike Hoare, Scotty, Shaikh Khalil, and Nic into the small police station. For security reasons, the police, soldiers, and other tribesmen are asked to exit the room, leaving only Shaikh Saqr, Shaikh Saud, Toufiq, Lou, and Sam. Sam is tasked with the duty of cameramen, so the interrogation of Colonel Mike Hoare is confidentiality videoed and photographed for posterity.

Pointing to Shaikh Khalil, Nic, and Scotty, Mad Mike tells his interrogator, Toufiq, “These three are the men who contracted me and paid me one million dollars to capture the island and hold it for twenty-four to forty-eight hours until the Iranian military comes to liberate it. My men and I were promised safe passage back to South Africa from Iran.”

“Was Iran involved in the plot to overthrow His Highness?”

Toufiq asks in English and then translates for the Ruler.

“I wasn’t involved in any discussions, but it was my understanding that after removing me and my troops, Iranian military would stay on the island and the Iranian government would declare it a protectorate.”

Cutting in, Lou addresses His Highness, “Please be assured that although the US already has proof of Iran’s involvement, it 528

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will not be released publicly and is to be considered a regional matter between His Highness and Iran.”

Crestfallen at the first-hand confirmation of his son Khalil’s betrayal, and the fact that he conspired with Iran, Shaikh Saqr takes a seat and turns away from his young son Saud so he won’t see his watery eyes.

Seeing his father in emotional distress, the young teen Shaikh takes over for his father and orders Mohammed and Abdulla to take Shaikh Khalil, Scotty, and the Colonel to the Ras Al Khaimah prison.

Sam goes outside and returns with Tony and Scaramouch to take custody of Nic and take him to the Big Easy for the voyage back to Dubai where he is to be detained by the Dubai police and confined in the Jumairah Prison for questioning.

“Sam, please keep the video and Nikon cameras close to you. There is a lot of damning evidence on them, and some may have to remain confidential for political reasons,” Lou instructs. **** From the time the floodlights went on until long after the celebration of the Security Forces on the island, Tim and his two camera crews film non-stop, moving around the area to catch every possible angle with footage of the disabled hovercraft on the beach with the loin-clothed Frogmen standing next to them; the mortar fire; the mercenary’s moving forward and then lying on the sand; the order to attack by the Ruler and firing by his forces; and, finally, the surrender and celebrating soldiers.

Behaving as if he were a Hollywood director, Tim gets close ups of the uniformed prisoners to show the similarity of their uniforms with that of Iranian marines to subliminally plant the idea in the newscasters’ and viewers’ minds that these guys are Iranian- backed without saying so in the press releases by the government of Ras Al Khaimah.

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Once the landing starts, Luca radios Flick and tells her to issue the first of the press releases to Reuters, BBC, and the Arab news services.

THE GOVERNMENT OF THE TRUCIAL STATE OF RAS AL KHAIMAH PRESS RELEASE #1 August 30, 2022 1:00 a.m. (GMT)

This morning at 4:00 a.m. (12:00 a.m. GMT), the Greater Tunb Island, sovereign territory of the Shaikhdom of Ras Al Khaimah, was invaded by a force of mercenary soldiers under the leadership of Colonel Mike (Mad Mike) Hoare, a well-known Soldier of Fortune. Having prior knowledge of an attempted coup and invasion, the Ruler, Shaikh Saqr bin Mohammed Al Qasimi, rallied a force of two hundred tribal loyalists who joined the island’s twenty residents and two policemen to form what has become known as the Bedouin Brigade to bravely defend the island and their legitimate Ruler.

At this time, heavy fighting continues on the island.

More information will be released as it is received.

Released by the Office of His Highness and Ruler’s Affairs Attn: Toufiq Abdul Kazim, Advisor.

Phone: +9717 111-2222 Telefax: +9717 111-2222

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Two hours later, in a second call to Flick, Luca instructs her to issue the second press release.

THE GOVERNMENT OF THE TRUCIAL STATE OF RAS AL KHAIMAH PRESS RELEASE #2 August 30, 2022 3:00 a.m. (GMT)

In a valiant defense with only rifles and three mortars, the Ruler of Ras Al Khaimah, Shaikh Saqr bin Mohammed Al Qassimi and his Bedouin Brigade, bravely defended the Greater Tunb Island against the assault by Colonel Mike (Mad Mike) Hoare’s troops, who were armed with automatic weapons. With strong fortitude, the tribal loyalists stopped the aggressors’ advance soon after their landing, and by 6:00 a.m. (2:00 a.m. GMT), the invaders led by Colonel Hoare and his soldiers for hire were surrounded and captured.

With the blessings of Allah, none of the Ras Al Khaimah forces were killed, and only two men were wounded.

Although the political provocateurs wore unmarked uniforms similar to Iranian marines, the government of Ras Al Khaimah wishes to dispel any rumors that Iran was involved and continues to acknowledge the friendly relationship between Iran and the Ruler.

Film, video, and photos of the encounter will soon be released to the media.

More information will be released as it is received.

Released by the Office of His Highness and Ruler’s Affairs Attn: Toufiq Abdul Kazim, Advisor.

Phone: +9717 111-2222 Telefax: +9717 111-2222

**** A hundred yards offshore, two exhausted bodies swim toward the beach on the eastern side of the island where Mad Mike and his troops had landed. Standing in waist deep water, 531

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Josh and Frankie, still on an adrenaline high, congratulate each other on their successful mission and watch the land action just starting.

“Too bad it’s over so soon. From here it was like watching fireworks on the Fourth of July,” Josh comments.

After a brief silence, they hear gunfire from onshore and see muzzle flashes. Josh yells, “Let’s get our asses on the beach before one of those pieces of bullet lead comes down on our skull! Why do Arabs always have to shoot their guns in the air to celebrate?” **** Wednesday-Friday August 31-September 1, 1967

For three days, the entire Shaikhdom of Ras Al Khaimah celebrates on the streets of every village and in the main town.

Shaikh Saqr orders feasts to be delivered to each Mosque, and singers, instrumental bands, and dancers are sent to entertain his tribe in celebration of their victory.

The main topic on the international English and Arabic news stations, from the BBC to the Egyptian Middle East News Agency, is the Tunb Islands. The voice of Shaikh Saqr’s trusted advisor, Toufiq Abdul Kazim, can be heard in interviews by Walter Cronkite, Robert Frost, Muhammed Heikal, and others.

Video and film clips, as well as still shots of the invasion are seen on every television screen around the world for several days.

The Middle East Airlines flights from Beirut are booked solid with reporters from every network in the USA and Europe, as well as most other world capitals, flooding into the Dubai and Abu Dhabi airports and working their way to Ras Al Khaimah.

It is a time for the people of Ras Al Khaimah to celebrate, but for the Ruler, Shaikh Saqr, it was a bittersweet victory.

532

Chapter 36 Karma Sunday September 3, 1967

Under interrogation by two of Shaikh Mohammed’s intelligence officers, Nic reluctantly reveals that his partner in the drug trade is Iskar Tandoody and not Majid. Operating as Majid’s business manager, Iskar had control of Majid’s dhows, while Nic controlled the MOMS vessels used. Together they brought in drugs from Iran and Afghanistan and planned to transit them through Italy to Europe and the USA. Arriving at the Muraggabat Police Station Lou stops in Dhahi’s office where he’s briefed on the information obtained so far from Nic. Dhahi has one of his staff escort Lou to the secure interview room to watch the questioning. Arriving just as the interrogators finish the first round of Nic’s cross-examination, he sees the police guards returning a bloodied-faced Nic to his cell, and then bring in Iskar.

Watching the cross-examination of Iskar through the oneway glass in the Dubai prison complex interrogation room, Lou is at first disappointed that Iskar is involved. But Tim had warned me several times about him. I always knew Majid had bestowed the gift of the partnership in DOODS to me to allow Iskar to keep an eye on me. But I really thought we were becoming friends. If Majid were involved, he’s no concern to me. Shaikh Mohammed made it clear that he would deal with him.

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Watching the interrogation, Lou soon realized that there is no “good cop, bad cop” routine with the Dubai police. In less than an hour, Iskar has told them everything they wanted to know.

Now finished with Iskar, Nic is returned to the steel chair, hands shackled behind the chairback with steel leg irons clamped to the floor.

Looking at him, Lou can no longer control his anger and rages through the door heading directly for Nic. “You son of a bitch, Nic! You were trusted by Don Fabio and Meyer. You had a chance to become wealthy and a power in the family. But you chose to bite the hand that feeds you and betray us. For what?”

“Ha, ha!” Nic spits out from his swollen bloody lips. “Fuck you, kid. They call you Don Luigi, but you’re just a fuckin’ child. You’re a little Donny Luigi. I know more in my little finger about the family business than you ever will. But, no, I’m not blood. I’m not a WOP, a DAGO, so I can never be a boss.

Yet some little shit like you with his big Harvard MBA becomes a Don before he’s thirty. Fuck you.”

Seething with anger, Lou walks up to Nic and slaps him across the face.

“You can’t even throw a punch. Just a bitch-slap,” he taunts Lou with a snickering laugh.

The memory muscles of the college boxer kick in, and Lou’s right hand turns into a fist propelled by his right arm muscles. He swings around with the weight of his body, connecting the hook with the traitor’s nose. The blood and sweat from his smashed nostrils spray onto Lou’s shirt and face. The momentum of the punch throws Nic backwards, tipping the chair on the hind two legs and then stops as Nic’s head hits the cinder block wall.

The thud of skull against the concrete reverberates throughout the room, loud enough to be transmitted through the internal intercom to the prison office of Colonel Harcross, Head of Dubai Police & Security, where he and Dhahi are listening to 534

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the interrogation over the internal intercom. A minute later, they rush into the interrogation room to check on Nic. “He’s just knocked out, maybe a mild concussion. We’ll have the prison doctor look at him. Come, Lou, let’s go back to my office and have tea,” Jack offers.

“Jack, Dhahi, did you hear the bastard? I don’t care what you do with Iskar, but Nic belongs to me and my family.”

“Go home, Lou. Get some rest and come back in a few hours when we finish questioning Iskar,” Jack orders.

Three hours later, Lou returns to Jack’s office and confronts Colonel Harcross and Dhahi. “Where is Iskar? He’s not in the interrogation room.”

“I have some bad news. Iskar’s interrogation finished early.

He was being transported by helicopter to the Jumairah Prison.

Apparently, the helicopter hit some rough turbulence over the Gulf, the door slid open, and Iskar accidently fell out,” Colonel Harcross relays with a deadpan expression while Dhahi sits with his head down, not wanting to look Lou in the eye.

“A terrible accident,” Dhahi finally says, still looking at the floor.

“Yes, it was,” Lou replies, finally understanding their cryptic explanation. “Can you ask Shaikh Mohammed if I can use that helicopter and crew to transport Nic to the airport to put him on a private flight to New Orleans when you’ve finished interrogating him? It would be nice if we could have the coordinates of where Iskar fell, so we can do a flyover and drop flowers on the water in his memory.”

“Of course,” replies Dhahi. “Let me know the day and time you need it.”

“I’ll be in Ras Al Khaimah for the next few days. They’re holding Scotty La Rouche and his son Maccie until we can get this concession mess cleaned up. If you need to contact me, just call Sam and he will pass on the message.”

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“Fi Amanillah,” bids Dhahi.

“Thank you.” **** Monday September 4, 1967

“Scotty, I hope that they’re treating you okay here,” Lou says to the prisoner. “It’s a bit bleak and off the grid, but maybe the isolation will give you time to reflect on your sins. This little interview room is pleasant enough, even air conditioned, unlike your cell.”

“What are you? My confessor now? I did nothing to deserve this,” Scotty scowls. “I’m a well-respected prominent Canadian businessman being kept against my will by none other than a fuckin’ mafia kingpin.”

“You were involved in a plot to overthrow a legitimate Ruler.

I’m amazed Shaikh Saqr hasn’t had you executed yet. Who knows what else you and Nic were scheming,” Lou insinuates.

“You’ve lost Scotty. World opinion has already turned against you and sees you for what you are, a narcissistic, greedy man.

Let me read the Reuters translation of a statement by the Shah of Iran regarding your fiasco.”

“The Government of Iran reaffirms its support for the Ruler of Ras Al Khaimah and his people against the foreign provocateurs who invaded the Greater Tunb Island and disavow any knowledge or involvement in the incident. One of the main conspirators, Scotty La Roche, is known to Iran only through his company, Canuck Petroleum Company (CPC), which had recently signed a concession agreement for an exploration block offshore Iran. In light of the recent revelations, the Government has revoked the license and has asked all employees and 536

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companies associated with CPC to leave the country. Mr. La Rouche and his business are considered persona non grata in the Imperial State of Iran.”

“Doesn’t sound good for you, when and if you ever get out of here,” Lou says with a chuckle. “I understand the Canadian government wants to talk to one of their distinguished citizens, but they say in the press that his whereabouts are unknown at this time. Wonder if they’ll ever find you and your son?”

“Maccie? You’re keeping Maccie here too? Where is he? Let me see him!”

“Sure, but first we have some paperwork to do.” Opening his briefcase, Lou takes out the two documents prepared by Carl Conetti in London. Holding one in each hand he pushes his right hand in front of Scotty’s face. “This one is a mutual agreement to terminate your concession with the with the Government of Ras Al Khaimah upon payment of a cancelation fee of five million US dollars to be paid to the Government by Canuck Petroleum Company, Inc.” Lou then pushes the left hand in front of Scotty.

“This is an agreement to reimburse Argent Corporation, our family company, for the sum of five million six hundred thousand US dollars as repayment of our loans, upfront costs, plus twelve percent interest, incurred by your subsidiary company, Canuck Gulf Petroleum, Ltd.” “You’re fucking crazy if you think I’m paying that to your gangster friends and that sham Ruler.”

“Oh, I think you’ll not only sign, but transfer the funds to both accounts before you ever see Canada again. Let’s go meet your son. He’s at the camel races.”

“So, he’s not a prisoner?”

“Unfortunately, not in here, but he is being kept up to his neck in business matters.”

“What kind of business would he do at the camel races?”

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“Let’s go see.”

Speaking in Arabic to the two guards, Lou directs them to put Scotty in the back of the police Land Rover and take them both to the camel track.

Once the police vehicle leaves the macadam, the dirt road becomes a carnival ride for Scotty, who is chained to the rollbar across the roof of the vehicle, bouncing up and down like a miniroller coaster.

After twenty minutes of bouncing, the driver heads up a big sand dune and stops.

From the elevated perch, Lou points down to a large flat area below filled with four-wheel drive vehicles, herds of camels, and groups of Arab men and small boys.

“Where do they race?” Scotty asks.

“It’s a straight ten-kilometer track, just below. We’ll let them start and then head for the finish line to see the winners come in. Watch this, Scotty.” Lou directs as the Arabs below head for their cars, except the little boys, not much bigger than a fouryear-old, being hoisted just behind the hump of the camels on a saddle, and tied on with rope so that they wouldn’t fall off.

“There are no stirrups, so their tiny feet just dangle or they cross them on the saddle.”

Once the child jockeys are on their camels, a gunshot is heard, the old Bedouin trainers slap their camels’ hindquarters, and they’re off. At the same instant, the pack of four-wheel drive Land Rovers, Jeeps, and Land Cruisers take off, pulling up alongside the racing camels. The driver of each packed vehicle blasts his car horn while the occupants lean out of the windows, cheering, screaming, and banging on the sides of the cars to encourage their favorite camel to move faster.

Rather than follow the other cars, Lou instructs his driver to head for the finish line. Stopping the vehicle, the guards remove Scotty’s chains and put cuffs on his wrists. Walking towards the finish line, Scotty notices a hump sticking out of the sand.

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“What’s that?” he asks as they get closer, pointing his joined hands at the finish line.

“Oh, that’s just Maccie, buried up to his ass—no looks like his head—in business.”

“He’s going to get trampled!” Scotty screams desperately.

“Oh, yeah. I see a cloud of dust coming our way. The camels should be here soon.”

“Please, he’s, my son. He had nothing to do with any of this.”

“I know he didn’t. He’s not smart enough to have been involved. But you’re a good Christian, so you understand, ‘the sins of the fathers are visited upon the children.’ Children often suffer for the bad things their parents do.”

“Lou, please do anything to me, but not this.”

“Well, we can save Maccie from being trampled and then put him in a cage with hungry falcons. They love to peck at eyes. Or, you can sign the documents, and we can go directly to the Ruler’s office to get the Arabic translations signed and notarized.”

“Yes, yes. I agree, I’ll sign. Just dig him out.”

“Looks like there may not be enough time. The camels are coming to the finish line. Whoa, look, the finish line is back there a hundred yards. They must have buried Maccie at the wrong place.”

“The camels have slowed down, but they’re still coming!”

Scotty yells. “You need to stop them.”

Lou whispers in Arabic into the ear of one of the guards, who then walks toward a small Bedouin man and speaks to him, then returns to his guard duty.

Immediately, a group of Bedouin camel trainers walk out on the track and stand around Maccie, chanting a traditional Arab song and circling around his head doing a cultural dance. As the group of thirty or forty camels continue at a slower pace, still heading straight toward the crowd of dancers circling Maccie, the volume of their singing increases. Just as the camels reach 539

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about ten yards away from the men, they stop singing and, in unison, start making a shrill ululation sound know in English as “the cry of joy” or zaghrouta in Arabic. The high-pitched howling and trilling made by the rapid back and forth movement of the tongue and the uvula, the back of the roof of the mouth, emits an unusual ear-piercing sound. The high frequency sound, usually made by women expressing joy at a wedding or other festive occasion, seem to be offensive to the camels. Just as they reach the trainers, they diverge into two groups, each trotting around the outside of the dancers, leaving them and Maccie unscathed.

After the camels pass, two workers dig Maccie from under his workload. Needing help to walk, a tearful and sand-covered Maccie is brought over to Scotty, who gives him a long paternal hug, kissing him on the cheeks, forehead, and neck. “I’m so sorry, son, for getting you in this mess.”

“Looks like family is more important than money. Hmm, just like our family. Once the funds are transferred, Maccie will be put on a plane to London. Until then, he will return as a guest of the Ruler in the cell next to you.”

“What about me?”

“You’ll be released to Canadian authorities—after we confirm the money is in the bank.”

Walking back to the police car, Lou leads Scotty toward a large beast. Coming face to face with the camel, Lou quickly steps away leaving Scotty alone to confront the animal. In a quick gesture, the animal pulls back his long neck and makes a sound as if he were sucking air into his nose. With a downward motion, his head comes forward and out flies a camel-size gob of greenish brown and yellow mucus, smack onto Scotty’s prison shirt.

“Ya got to watch those camels, Scotty. They have a bad habit of spitting on people they don’t trust.”

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**** Returning Scotty and Maccie to their cells, Lou drives to meet with Toufiq at his office where they arrange for a Sharia judge and two mullahs to accompany him back to the prison to witness and notarize the documents Scotty is to sign.

At the prison, Lou requests that Scotty be brought to the interrogation room where the documents are placed on the table for him to sign.

Seated in a chair at the table, his leg irons shackled to the floor and his wrist irons are removed.

“Here, Scotty, use my Mont Blanc pen. It’s the one the Ruler used to sign the concession.”

“Fuck you, Lou.” “Watch your mouth. You’re in the presence of religious men and a highly respected judge.”

“Yeah, like they speak English.”

“Yale, law school, class of 1960,” blurts out Judge Ali in perfect English, while Lou breaks out laughing.

“Thank you, your honor,” Lou responds in Arabic, just to screw with Scotty, as both Lou and the judge chuckle. “I’d give you the pen after you sign, but the authorities are afraid you might use it to hurt yourself. Besides, you have one more document to sign.”

“What else do you want from me? You got what you needed businesswise.”

“I did, but as a condition of your release to the Canadian Government, we need you to sign this confession of your involvement in hiring the mercenaries as well as your role in supporting Shaikh Khalil’s attempt to overthrow his father. This is for the Ruler only and will not be given to your government.”

Reading over the English side of the dual language document, Scotty looks up. “How do I know the Ruler still won’t execute me after I sign?”

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“Unlike amoral, unethical people like you, His Highness and the Bedouin tribes of Arabia have a strong sense of morality and ethics. He has given me his word, and that is his bond.”

Scottie signs the paper and is immediately removed from the room, yelling back to Lou as he leaves, “I’ll see you in hell.”

“How about Canada? Almost the same to me, with your frozen winters,” Lou responds as Judge Ali laughs. **** With the process completed, Lou takes the Sharia judge and mullahs, along with his notarized and witnessed documents, back to the Ruler’s office complex.

Silently drinking tea in Toufiq’s office while his host skims through the agreements, the advisor looks up at Lou and says, “Thank you, my friend. This will be very helpful for His Highness during these difficult financial times.”

Summoning his secretary, Toufiq asks that she make a copy of the documents for Mr. Falconi.

“Please let us know when you have a new company to take the Musandam concession?”

“Can you give me a few months? I need a break from business to contemplate life and my future.”

“I’ve heard that Tibet has some wonderful Buddhist monasteries where one can meditate and find the meaning of life,” Toufiq teases.

“No, I’m thinking of a secluded beach on a Caribbean Island.

Much warmer.”

“Let me know when you’re ready. In the meantime, we’ll send Maccie home tomorrow and hold Scottie until we know that both of us have received our funds.”

“What about Shaikh Khalil? What will happen to him?”

“That’s all been arranged. President Nassar has agreed to take him, and his father has agreed to a respectable monthly living allowance for him. As long as he keeps out of Egyptian politics 542

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and illicit business ventures, he’ll be allowed to stay there as an observed guest. If he breaks those rules, he’ll be returned to Ras Al Khaimah in chains. If his father won’t take him back, he’ll be stateless living in the Cairo airport.”

“I’ve been through that airport. That would be like living in hell. Too bad Khalil wasn’t like his brother Saud. I believe that young man has real potential.”

“Yes, his father and I recognize that also. Let’s see what the future holds for him.”

Returning to the office with the photocopies, Aisha hands them to Lou and departs.

Lou takes the documents and then walks around to the side of Toufiq’s desk and locks him in a bear hug. “Thank you again, my friend.”

“And you too, Lou, Fi Amanillah. I’ll see you in a few months. The Ruler will be anxious to meet when you return. Go with God.”

543

Chapter 37 The Final Fallout Thursday September 14, 1967

Except for taking care of internal housekeeping, life after the invasion for the Rulers and their families in Dubai and Ras Al Khaimah was back to normal. But the pressure during the weeks of preparation and while carrying out the plan was too much of a strain for some of the expats involved. Felicity, in particular.

Sitting at dinner—the first she and Lou have been alone for some time—and in a restaurant other than the Ten Tola, a quiet tension emanates from both. After a long silence, Felicity breaks the ice. “Lou, I’ve decided to return to London. The last few months have been stressful, and I need to get back to a normal life.”

As she explains, Lou reaches into his pants pocket and removes a small box. “Please, please, don’t go.” Opening the box, he holds it up for her to see the ring he bought in London. “I love you and need you here with me, not just now, but forever.”

Felicity breaks out in sobs. “Oh, Lou, you don’t know how badly I’d love to stay with you, but I can’t. I just can’t.”

“I don’t understand. I love you and I know you love me.

Why?” “Yes, I do love you, with all of my heart and soul, but you’re already committed, Lou.”

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Stunned and confused, Lou looks at her. “What are you talking about? I’ve rejected every family attempt to arrange a marriage for me. You know that.”

“For me, to marry you would be like marrying one of the Nationals here. A marriage of mixed cultures. Things would be fine for a few months and maybe even a year, but as time passes, your commitment to your family will take precedence and I would spend less and less time with you. I would be tolerated, but never be accepted by the Falconi family. Eventually, for me it would be like the Western women I see here, living a separate life while their Arab husbands take a second wife selected by the family. Eventually, we drift apart and finally divorce so you can return to a full commitment to your family with a new wife chosen by the family in a political marriage joining two powerful families in blood.”

“That won’t happen. I promise.”

“It has already happened. Don’t you see it? You’re already married to your family. My God, you’re a boss, a, ah—what do they call you, Don Luigi—a Capo in a mafia family? For you, business will always come first. Worst of all will be the secrets that you can’t share with me, but I will learn about them from the wife of one of your soldiers—or even from members of your family. Things that I shouldn’t know about, but that I will.

I already have to carry the truth about the Puss and Hoots being blown up not by some rogue Egyptian mine, but by my lover and his cousin. I can’t live that kind of life.”

Pushing herself away from the table, tears streaming down her face, Felicity stands and walks away.

Lou’s hurt and anger becomes intolerable. Running after her as she exits to the street, he roughly grabs her arm from behind.

“Please, you’re hurting my arm,” she pleads.

“Do you know what I just did today? Jesus, I just gave up my life. I made arrangements with Carl Conetti to draw up documents for me to sign over the Ten Tola to Sam, and papers are being 545

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drawn up for Tim to take Iskar’s twenty-five percent of DOODS, giving him a full fifty percent partnership and managing director position. Frankie is being appointed CEO of MOMS with Josh as his number two. What else do I need to give up to prove the only thing I care about is you?”

“I know what you did, but it was a mistake that you can still remedy. Call Carl in London, tell him to stop the paperwork.

Your friends or soldiers, whatever they are, all love you and would gladly rather have you here than the business interests.

You will never be happy without being part of what you created and a part of your family. Please, go back to them where you belong,” she pleads as she again turns and starts to walk away.

“It’s not over. I’ll come after you. Take six months, take a year, I’ll wait for you,” he yells as she moves farther and farther away. **** Returning to his Ten Tola office, Lou picks up the secure phone and dials a number. “Dhahi, it’s Lou. It’s been over two weeks since you’ve held Nic. Have you finished his interrogation yet?”

“Yes, we have.”

“Have you learned anything new besides the drugs and other contraband smuggling, and his involvement with Iran for the oil concession?”

“Yes, apparently, he and his Iranian contacts discussed overthrowing Shaikh Rashid and assassinating Shaikh Mohammed. The intent was to make Shaikh Rashid’s brother Khalifa the Ruler and have Iran become a protector of Dubai just as they planned for Ras Al Khaimah. Nic and Scotty and their partners would be given oil concessions in the adjacent offshore waters of Dubai and Iran for their help in carrying out the coup and eliminating Shaikh Mohammed.”

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“Shaikh Khalifa? I knew Rashid had a brother, but never heard much about him.”

“Yes, Khalifa is about ten years younger than Rashid. Quite a lot of promise as a youth, and for a time he ran the Civil Defense and Fire brigades. The loss of his first wife was very difficult for him, and he retreated from public service, preferring the quiet Bedouin lifestyle.”

“Was Khalifa agreeable to the plan?”

“It never went that far. Khalifa’s lifestyle is very private and he was never approached. The plan never became a threat to Shaikh Rashid or Shaikh Mohammed. Shaikh Khalifa is a loyal brother to Shaikh Rashid and to the family and would never consider such a scheme.”

“I’m sure if they succeeded in Ras Al Khaimah, Dubai was next on the list.”

“Exactly.”

“Good. Then you’re done with Nic?” “Yes. He’s signed the confession. Now he’s your problem.”

“If I come out to the prison in an hour, can you have that helicopter and crew available for me so I can send Nic on his way?”

“Done. I’ll meet you there.” **** Arriving at the Jumairah prison, Lou sees the blinking lights of a helicopter landing inside the walls. Going directly to Colonel Harcross’ office, Lou finds Dhahi behind the desk. Nic, hands shackled, sits in a chair between two standing guards.

As Lou enters, Nic smiles. His split lips, swollen cheeks, and crooked nose have changed his looks but not his belligerent attitude. “So, the family has voted, and I get to go home, right?”

“Yeah, you’re right. The family has voted.”

Speaking in Arabic, Dhahi orders the guards to take Nic to the helicopter.

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“Make sure you give him a window seat so he can see the lights of Dubai before he leaves,” Lou says in Arabic to the guards, and then again in English so Nic understands.

Following behind, Lou and Dhahi reach the chopper just as Nic is placed in the seat next to the door. Climbing in, Lou sits and puts on the harness safety belt. Dhahi speaks to the police guards in Arabic and then looks at Lou with a knowing smile.

Over the noise of the engine, Nic babbles on loudly. “That prick Don Fabio and his little Jew Meyer never knew what I could do for them and the Falconi family, but all the other family bosses understood. I knew that they would back me.”

Lou just stares at Nic without responding. Feeling the inertia of a right turn, Lou realizes they have reached their altitude of three thousand feet and the chopper is banking east out over the waters of the Gulf. Once leveled off, one of the guards loosens Nic’s harness and then reaches over to open the sliding door.

Finally understanding they are not heading to the airport, Nic screams in protest above the sounds of the engine and bellowing wind, looking like a ventriloquist dummy who lost his voice. All the while, Lou smiles at him.

Lou and the two guards unfasten their safety harness from their seats and connect umbilical safety belts. Nic’s shackled hands and feet prevent him from fighting back as the two guards manage to release his harness and lift him by his biceps, facing the open door.

All the while Nic is protesting and trying to fight off the two men restraining him, forcing Lou to stand and assist the policemen.

Almost as if he is resigned to his fate, Nic finally calms down and stares into the watery abyss below.

Lou, connected to his safety line, moves around to look Nic in the eye and smiles. Moving behind his nemesis, Don Luigi

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yells in Nic’s ear, “The Dons have voted.” He pushes Nic out the open door.

“Ma’salama, motherfucker!” **** Returning to the prison, the two guards and Lou exit the chopper. Heading directly to his car, Lou drives to the Ten Tola and makes a beeline to his office. Inside, he sits at his desk and picks up the phone.

“Shashi, get Carl Conetti in London on the phone, and then notify Sam, Josh, Frankie, and Tim that I need to see them together in my office at eight tomorrow morning.” Pausing, he says to himself, Fuck it. “When you talk to Frankie, ask him if he will get me the phone number of that new teacher at the English School he introduced me to. I think her name was Victoria.”

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Epilogue I was blessed with the opportunity to personally meet Shaikh Rashid bin Saeed Al Maktoum when he visited the American school soon after I took over Luca’s position as headmaster. I was also fortunate to accompany Luigi on several social visits to Shaikh Mohammed before his brother, Shaikh Maktoum, who succeeded his father as Ruler in 1990, died in 2006. As agreed by the surviving brothers and the tribe, Shaikh Mohammed succeeded Shaikh Maktoum as Ruler.

Luigi found that even with his close friendship, Shaikh Mohammed’s busy schedule made it difficult for the two old confederates to spend the time together they had been accustomed to.

Luigi’s meetings with Shaikh Saqr bin Mohammed Al Qassimi in Ras Al Khaimah were also limited once his business relations in the casino and the oil concessions ended, but he kept in touch with his young son, Shaikh Saud, who became Ruler after his father’s reign of sixty-two years ended with his passing in 2010.

Without the benefit of vast oil and gas resources, Shaikh Saqr has done wonders on his shoestring budget to develop Ras Al Khaimah. The paternal love of a father for his firstborn led Shaikh Saqr to succumb to pleas from his exiled son, Shaikh Khalil, for forgiveness. Graciously, Saqr forgave his son, allowing him to return home from exile in Egypt and restored his title of Crown Prince. Eventually, Khalil reverted to his old ways, and his public opposition to his father’s policies and those of the newly formed UAE, led to his removal as Crown Prince in 550

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2003 allowing for the appointment of the now highly educated Shaikh Saud. Had Shaikh Saud been Crown Prince during those lost years, I’m sure Ras Al Khaimah’s progress would have been much faster. Shaikh Saud’s tenure since his father passed in 2010 has been brief, but his accomplishments are phenomenal.

Between 1967 and 2022 the achievements of the Dubai Royals, Shaikh Rashid, Shaikh Maktoum, Shaikh Hamdan, and Shaikh Mohammed, as well as the Ras Al Khaimah Royals, Shaikh Saqr and Shaikh Saud, have become too numerous to address here, but are well documented in books and articles. For those who would like to read about them, and have the time to do so, I highly recommend two books, both biographies by Graeme Wilson, Rashid’s Legacy, and Saqr, which are listed in the bibliography in Appendix IV. **** I would like to tell you about a few historical events that occurred since 1965, as well as the fate of the people, places and things you just read about.

THE UNITED ARAB EMIRATES On December 2, 1971, the Federation of the United Arab Emirates (UAE) was formed consisting of the Trucial States of Abu Dhabi, Dubai, Sharjah, Ajman, Umm Al Quwain, and Fujairah. The seventh, Ras Al Khaimah, lobbied the US Government to recognize it as an independent entity like Bahrain, but after the Iranian invasion of the Tunb Islands, Shaikh Saqr realized the security of his rule and his people would be more secure as a part of the UAE, and so in February 1972, he joined the Federation.

BAHRAIN, ABU MUSA, AND THE TUNB ISLANDS In 1966, Britain announced they would withdraw from the Gulf. In November 1971, just weeks before Britain’s long 551

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expected withdrawal from the Gulf, the British negotiated a Memorandum of Understanding between Iran and Sharjah over the island of Abu Musa, which led to Bahrain being recognized

by Iran as an independent country, in return for the Shah’s sovereignty over Abu Musa, but with an agreement to share oil and gas proceeds with Sharjah. The British also approached the Ruler of Ras Al-Khaimah to make an agreement with Iran regarding his Tunb Islands. Shaikh Saqr refused to negotiate.

As foreseen by many, on November 30, 1971, shortly after the withdrawal of British forces from the islands of Abu Musa and the Tunbs, a contingent of the Iranian army, supported by Imperial Iranian Navy forces, invaded the islands. Even if Shaikh Saqr had the foreknowledge provided by Luigi Falconi and Dubai’s Shaikh Mohammed as he did in 1967, defense against the powerful Shah and his military was impossible. Declaring the islands as sovereign Iranian territory, Iran has maintained its control over them since their seizure.

Perhaps Shaikh Saqr had the last laugh and consolation, knowing that the USA listening post on Iran in his Hajar Mountains allowed his enemy, Iran, to be monitored by the Ruler’s ally, the USA. With more sophisticated electronic surveillance being developed, the listening post became obsolete and was removed in the early 2000s and a modern resort was built on the Jebel Jais site by the present Ruler, Shaikh Saud.

THE 1973 ARAB- ISREALI WAR Just as Lou’s friends predicted, the never-ending conflict between the Arabs and Israelis continued—and developed into yet another war. From October 6 to 25, 1973, the Arab-Israeli war, known as the Yom Kippur War, Ramadan War, or October War, broke out between Israel and a coalition of Arab States led

by Egypt and Syria. The successes of the Egyptians allowed for leverage in negotiating the return of the rest of the Israeli occupied Sinai Peninsula. With Pat Riley’s urging, Sam and 552

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Luigi aided the Israelis, but this time, playing double agents, they also did what they could to help Egypt and its allies, so as not to place them in such an embarrassing position in defeat, as they were subjected to in the 1967 War. Although Luigi refused to reveal for this book just what he and Sam actually did, his interview on this subject was limited to his saying that their goal was to shorten the war and reduce the loss of life on both sides by passing information to both.

THE RAS AL KHAIMAH CASINO In 1975, Shaikh Saqr received an offer that Uncle Fabio would say “you can’t refuse.” The growing conservative Islamic movement led by Iranian religious leaders and some conservative Wahhabi leaders in Saudi Arabia kept getting stronger, eventually leading to the 1978 revolution in Iran.

In 1974, King Faisal bin Abdulaziz Al Saud of Saudi Arabia decided the casino was becoming an embarrassment to both Sunni and Shi’ite conservative Muslims, and the government offered Shaikh Saqr double the five-million-dollar annual fee for the casino license he received from Luigi Falcon in perpetuity if Shaikh Saqr would shut the casino. Lou understood the situation, and respecting His Highness’s wishes, closed the venue.

Current rumors in the international and USA press say that Ras Al Khaimah may be the location of the UAE’s second casino at Jebel Jais Resort, which is in the Hajar mountains of Ras al Khaimah Emirate. Very apropos.

THE TEN TOLA In 1995, the original Bustan Hotel that housed the Ten Tola was torn down and replaced by a new Bustan Hotel in 1997. With the progress made in Dubai and with numerous other restaurants and bars opening, Sam and Lou felt it was time to let go of the past and decided not to replace the venue.

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THE WHITE FALCONS No expense was spared by Dubai and Ras Al Khaimah to take care of the white Canadian Gyrfalcons. The Shaikhs are avid environmentalists and falcon lovers and built special rooms to house each falcon to protect them from the Gulf heat, allowing them to hunt in winter months when weather permitted. Both falcons lived a natural twenty-year life span. The Canadian Government has since stopped removal of these protected birds from their normal environment.

ARGENT CORPORATION Argent Corporation, the holding company for the businesses held by the consortium of US mafia families, is still in existence.

In 1985, all the assets of the Dubai Offshore Oil Drilling Supply (DOODS), Marine Offshore Maintenance Services (MOMS), and other companies owned by Argent were sold to McDermott Arabian Gulf (MAG), a subsidiary of McDermott Middle East.

The Dubai Hydrocarbon Marketing Company (DHMC), which was formed to trade the Dubai government’s share of oil and gas production was not sold. This marketing agreement existed until 2007, when Continental Oil Company relinquished their concession and turned over operations to the government of Dubai, who canceled all marketing agreements. Argent’s share of the fee of one US dollar per barrel of oil and gas equivalent produced in Dubai lasted for almost thirty-seven years and resulted in a windfall for Lou’s mafia families that were part of the Argent Corporation, as well as for Majid and his partners.

RAS AL KHAIMAH MUSANDAM OIL CONCESSION Several oil and gas companies were brought in by Lou to look at the potential of the oil in the Hajar Mountains, but after doing geological studies, all agreed it was not possible to exploit the oil until they could do expensive seismic to see where the oil was migrating. All rejected the opportunity. It would be several 554

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years before other companies signed offshore concessions within the Emirates territorial water with some success. **** LUIGI’S TRIBE AND OTHERS LUIGI FALCONI – Luigi stayed as a friend and unofficial advisor to Mohammed until Luigi’s reported assassination by an Iranian death squad in 1981. Unknown to most, after the 1978-9 revolution in Iran, a Fatwa was issued against Luigi by Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini, who became the Supreme Leader of Iran. Luigi was charged with corrupting an Islamic state with the introduction of his bar, casino, and businesses that brought alcohol and infidels into the region.

Years later, it was revealed that Luigi, although seriously injured in the attack, survived the assassination, thanks to the fact that his friend in the police, Dhahi, never canceled his twenty-four-hour police security. With the assistance of Shaikh Mohammed, Luigi was sent to the UK for medical treatment, and after he recovered, went into hiding in Catania in Sicily, where he lived as a monk at the Monastero dei Benedettini di San Nicolò l’Arena. In 1990, after the death of Shaikh Rashid, Luigi made some life-changing decisions and returned to Dubai, converted to Islam, and took the name of Yusuf Islam.

The conversion lifted the Fatwa and he lived openly with his Muslim wife, and, more covertly, with his British mistress, until his death in 2010.

FRANKIE FALCONI – When cousin Luigi backed away from the business operations of the family in 1967, Frankie became CEO of the multiple family ventures in the UAE and other countries. In 1985, he returned home and was elevated to Caporegime status, paving the way for his succession in 1993 as Capo di tutti Capi (Boss of Bosses), after the death of Uncle Fabio, a role originally reserved for but rejected by his cousin 555

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Luigi. Frankie is a well-respected international businessman and lives with his family in New Orleans.

SAM SWEENEY – The eighteen years of profits from the Ten Tola and other business ventures made Sam a wealthy man. In 1999, he returned to the UK and rescued his family’s estate from bankruptcy caused by his eldest brother’s poor management.

Sam became Lord of the Manor. In 2005, just before his peaceful passing, he was knighted by Queen Elizabeth for his military, commercial, and philanthropic services in the Middle East.

JOSH SAMPSON – Josh was appointed the #1 man at MOMS, answering directly to Frankie. He and his family stayed in Dubai until 1985. He continued working in the oil and gas industry in Mexico, Azerbaijan, and other countries. In 1990, he and his family returned to his beloved Montana, where he spent his days hunting, fishing, and skiing. He passed away unexpectedly in 2017 and is dearly missed by family and friends.

TIM JOHNSON – Tim stayed in Dubai until 1985 when DOODS was sold. He then moved back to the USA where he and his wife Evie became successful entrepreneurs in the new IT industry, investing heavily in Apple computers and Microsoft.

Tim died in 1990 of heart failure. An avid believer in Cryogenics, Tim’s head still sits in a highly polished stainless-steel capsule in a specially built mausoleum on his estate in Santa Barbara, California. Just before he was pronounced brain dead, Evie and his son began the freezing process, which required placing his head in a specially built pod with wires, hoses, and large cables connected to electrical and computer networks, pumps, and other mechanical devices. They claim he is not really dead—his life has just been temporarily suspended. Tim and his family believe that with the advancements in medical science, much due to research funded by Evie and Tim, it will only be a few 556

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years before he will be revived and placed on a healthy twentyyear-old body.

I look forward to seeing Tim when he is resuscitated.

PAT RILEY – It was years before we really understood Pat’s penchant for secrecy, when we finally learned from his family in the USA that he was killed in an undercover operation in Iraqi-occupied Kuwait prior to the 1991 US invasion. A new star with just the year 1990 and without a name was added to the Memorial Wall in the original CIA Headquarters’ lobby and is also listed in the “Book of Honor” at the CIA headquarters in Langley, McClean, Virginia.

FELICITY MARIS – Felicity returned to London and worked in the McDermott International Office until 1970, when she married her boss. She was divorced in 1981. Flick always believed that Lou was really alive and spent the next nine years looking for him until he returned to Dubai and they were reunited.

Unwilling to convert to Islam, she remained Lou’s mistress until his death in 2010. Lou arranged for her to inherit a large part of his wealth in England, where she returned after Lou’s death and still lives today.

LUCA LUCHETTI – Luca and his family left Dubai in 1974 and worked as a school administrator in the USA. When he finished his Ph.D. in international relations in 1980, he was recruited by the US Office of Education to oversee all education facilities and programs that received funds from that office.

He stayed in that role until retirement in 2010. He has just completed his autobiography, which reveals his role as a covert CIA operative while in his US Office of Education position. The book’s publication has been held up until vetting by the CIA is completed.

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TONY CONETTI – Tony moved to Dubai in 1997 when Hong Kong rule reverted to China. His brother Carl followed and established a law office in Dubai. Both have since passed away.

MAJID BIN JABIR – Just as Tim Johnson predicted, Majid bin Jabir became one of the richest men in the world during the 1970s and 80s. Also as predicted by Tim, Majid became the first Ambassador from the United Arab Emirates to the Court of St. James (United Kingdom) from 1971-1989. Simultaneously from 1971 to 1980, he served as Ambassador to France. By 2010, he was reported to be one of the wealthiest people in the world with a net worth of more than $1.7 billion.

During the drug smuggling when Lou couldn’t trust anyone, he said he was cautious in his dealings with Majid. However, once Majid was vindicated and proven not to be involved, Lou’s relationship with him warmed considerably. Lou always found him to be a gentleman, willing to talk and advise. He said he was professional and ethical, and helped Lou on several occasions.

Lou said that he didn’t know what caused the animosity between Majid and Shaikh Mohammed, but we both agreed that the level of wealth and power Majid achieved, doesn’t come without upsetting others. Perhaps Mohammed felt that Majid took advantage of his father Shaikh Rashid and utilized the power he was granted by the Ruler to his own benefit. Personally, I feel Shaikh Rashid was much sharper than Majid and would never let someone take advantage of him without getting what he wanted out of Majid, the quid pro quo, a perfect symbiotic relationship.

SAL DAVIS – The Kenyan Sinatra, at eighty-one years old, still sings and lives in Kenya. Saleem Abdulla Saleem, who is popularly known as Sal Davis, is still a legendary Kenyan musician and song composer known for some of the greatest hits in the country from the 60s to the 90s. His latest album was released in 2021.

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Appendix I Characters In The Novel NEW ORLEANS Falconi Family Giuseppe and Luigia Falconi – parents of the five Falconi sons 1. Fabio Falconi* - Capo de Capi – First-born son - wife Maria 2. Giuseppe Falconi – Second brother - father of Frankie – and advisor to Fabio – wife Theresa 3. Andrea Falconi – Third brother - runs jukebox and canteen business 4. Vincenzo (Enzo) – Fourth brother - confidant and head soldier of Fabio - wife Rosa 5. Paolo –Fifth brother - father of Luigi (Lou) - confidant of Fabio - wife Sophia Luigi (Lou) Paolo Falconi* – Son of Paolo, who becomes Don Luigi –born 1940 Frankie Falconi – Lou’s first cousin and son of Giuseppe – Born 1945 -VP at MOMS Luca Luchetti – Headmaster JAS – son of Vincenzo Luchetti (first cousin of Fabio through his sister), runs Detroit Labor Union rackets - wife Susan MAFIA ASSOCIATES OF FALCONI FAMILY Meyer Lansky*AKA Meier Suchowlański – Partner to Fabio - Based in Las Vegas Nicholas Nicandro* – Longtime associate of Fabio and Chairman of MOMS – Wife Delores Big John Ormento* -Representing the East Coast families Leonardo Scala* - Representing Houston family 559

Matteo LaRocca* – Representing Joe Civello from the Dallas family Shamus Reilly* – Representing John Scalish from the Florida family Tony Conetti* – Financier/money launderer from Hong Kong Joey (Cookie) Biscotti* Nero (The Fiddler) Santoro – Starts fires for insurance Tommy (Stringbean) Fagioli – Head of security, NOLA Vending Company Sammy (Scaramouch) Scarlatti – Soldier and bodyguard for Meyer Lansky Tony Barlotto – Soldier and bodyguard for Meyer Lansky *Attendees at Gretna Gulf Coast Conference on April 5, 1965

DUBAI, ABU DHABI, RAS AL KHAIMAH AND OTHER LOCATIONS ABU DHABI ROYAL FAMILY & ADVISORS Shaikh Zayed bin Sultan Al Nahyan – Ruler of Abu Dhabi Shaikh Mohammed bin Zayed Al Nahyan – Crown Prince DUBAI ROYAL FAMILY & ADVISORS Shaikh Rashid bin Saeed Al Maktoum – Ruler of Dubai 1958 - 1990 Shaikh Maktoum bin Rashid Al Maktoum – First son and Crown Prince - Ruler of Dubai 1990 - 2006 Shaikh Hamdan bin Rashid Al Maktoum – Second son – Heads government companies Shaikh Mohammed bin Rashid Al Maktoum - Third son Ruler of Dubai 2006 – Present Shaikh Ahmed bin Rashid Al Maktoum - Fourth son of Shaikh Rashid

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Shaikh Khalifa bin Saeed Al Maktoum - Brother of Shaikh Rashid Shaikh Ahmed bin Saeed Al Maktoum – Half-brother of Shaikh Rashid Majid bin Jabir – Advisor to Shaikh Rashid Ahmet – Turkish guard at Majid’s villa Iskar Tandoody –Assistant to Majid bin Jabir - Partner to Luigi and Tim Johnson in DOODS Dhahi Sadek Taweel– Childhood friend of Shaikh Mohammed – Joined Dubai Police in 1970 and appointed Chief in 1979.

Colonel Jack Harcross – Head of Police & Security until 1970 RAS AL KHAIMAH ROYAL FAMILY & ADVISORS Shaikh Saqr bin Mohammed Al Qassimi - Ruler (1948 – 2010) Shaikh Khalil bin Saqr Al Qassimi – Crown Prince and oldest son of first wife Shaikh Hamid bin Saqr Al Qassimi – Second son of second wife Shaikh Saud bin Saqr Al Qassimi – First son of 3rd wife – Ruler (2010) - Present Toufiq Abdul Kazim – Advisor to Shaikh Saqr RAK Mohammed al Qassim – Trucial Security Force Officer Friend of Lou and Sam Abdulla abu Ali – Trucial Security Force Officer - Friend of Lou and Sam MUSANDAM - RAS AL KHAIMAH Safiuddin – Shihuh tribesman who shoots rebel attacker and helps find oil seep Ali bin Shanfi –Second guide to help find oil seep Steve Robertson – Helicopter pilot on Musandam oil trip 561

BAHRAIN Shaikh Issa bin Salman al Khalifa - Emir of Bahrain, 19611999 OTHER DUBAI-BASED CHARACTERS Tim Johnson – Partner with Iskar Tandoody, Manager of DOODS Chandran – Tim’s Driver Evie DeSouza and sister Lucy DeSouza - Tim’s Girlfriends Lieutenant Samuel Sweeney –1965 British Soldier based in Sharjah and RAK 1966-1991 partner in Ten Tola Bar – British Intelligence – Father, Ronan Pat Riley – COC Government Relations Manager – CIA – Wife Ann Josh Sampson – Manager at MOMS – wife Nellie Earl Scrudds – President of COC - wife Lilly Leonard F. McCully - Chairman of COC from Ponca city Brandon Davidson - Chairman of J.R. McDermott International Ed Stroller - VP of J.R. McDermott Arabian Gulf Jim Christopher - Manager of Citi Bank’s new branch office Franklin Ford - VP International of First Chicago Bank Butch Malone - Manager of Houston Design and Contracting (UCon).

Leonard Jamieson - Manager of Schlumberger - wife Darlene Darlene Jamieson - Mom with sweet southern drawl Felicity (Flick Maris) - Secretary at McDermott – Lou’s lover Tia Williams – Secretary at McDermott Steve (Toby) Tobin – Captain of the tug Dana Marguerite April Robbins - Teacher at English School Leroy Houston – Ex Military friend 562

Sal Davis - Kenyan singer, real name Saleem Abdulla Saleem-son Abdulla Salem RAS AL KHAIMAH BASED CHBARACTERS Halib Haider - Manager of Abdulla Catering Aisha – Secretary to Toufiq Abdul Kazim BRITISH GOVERNMENT OFFICIAL The Honorable Archibald Stuart - British Resident Officer TEN TOLA EMPLOYEE Ahmet – Turkish driver to Ten Tola Bar – Lou’s first driver Yusuf – Lou’s second driver - CID police to protect Luca Hamid – Lou’s s third driver - CID officer after Yusuf Shashi – Lou’s Assistant.

Ashokan – Lou’s Houseboy Lazar –Mexican cook Omar - Bartender SOUTH AFRICA Mad Mike Hoare – Mercenary living in South Africa BEIRUT Albert Abuzian – Partner in Casino du Liban – provide staff and management for RAK casinothrough Abuzian Catering Company, (ACC) Adeb, Fozia, Antonio, Merjan and Zaina – Frankie’s school friends in Beirut Abdulla Malik - ticketing manager Middle East Airlines ISRAEL Wolfgang Leader – Mossad agent Levi and Ephriam - Israeli Mossad divers who rescue Lou and Frankie 563

JORDAN Sirḥān Bišāra Sirḥān – Man who steals Luca’s briefcase in Amman and is assigned by the Hashashin to kill Lou - In 1968 he assassinated Robert F. Kennedy in Los Angeles LONDON Carl Conetti - Partner in Conetti & Shire Law firm and brother of Tony Mary Margaret – Secretary NEW ORLEANS FAMILY RESTAURANT Louis Thomas Fratto (cock-eyed Louie) - friend of Rocky Marciano Rocky Marciano – Professional boxer whom Fabio beat up and broke his nose in the restaurant SAUDI ARABI Ahmed Zaki Yamani - Minister of Petroleum and Mineral Resources, Kingdom of Saudi Arabia SINGAPORE/HONG KONG Tony Conetti – Financier and money launderer and brother of Carl Conetti SALVAGE DIVE TEAM Frankie Sam, Josh, Lou, and Luca and Tim PUSS & HOOTS CREW Captain John – First Captain Saleem – Crewman on the Bertram and Puss & Hoots Veloo – Crewman on the Bertram boat Captain Antonio- First Mate and second Captain Saju – Crewman Raju – Chief Engineer 564

COMPANY NAMES AND ACRONYMS ARGENT CORPORATION – Holding company for joint family businesses. Umbrella partnership for 75% of Dubai Offshore Oil Drilling Supply (DOODS), 90% of Marine Offshore Maintenance Services (MOMS), 25% of Ras Al Khaimah Casino Ventures, and others Dubai Hydrocarbon Marketing Company (DHMC), ($1.00 a barrel overriding royalty).

ABUZIAN CATERING COMPANY, (ACC) - ABDULLA CATERING - SUBSIDIARY OF ACC Albert Abuzian – Partner CANUCK GULF PETROLEUM LTD. (CGP) Maccie La Rouche son of Scotty, manager of CGP CANUCK PETROLEUM COMPANY INC. (CPC) Scotty La Rouche, Chairman CPC Marie Montaigne, Scotty’s PA at CPC Maccie La Rouche son of Scotty, manager of CGP Duffy La Rouche son of Scotty, works with father CITI BANK – USA Based bank Jim Christopher - Manager CONTINENTAL OIL COMPANY (COC) Leonard F. McCully - Chairman of COC from Ponca city Earl Scrudds – President Pat Riley – Government Relations Manager – CIA DUBAI OFFSHORE OIL DRILLING SUPPLY (DOODS) Tim Johnson – Manager FIRST CHICAGO BANK - USA based bank Franklin Ford - VP International

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HOUSTON DESIGN AND CONTRACTING (UCon).

Butch Malone - Manager IRANIAN NATIONAL OIL COMPANY (NIOC) MARINE OFFSHORE MAINTENANCE SERVICES (MOMS) Josh Sampson – Manager MCDERMOTT INTERNATIONAL CONSTRUCTION (MIC)– International public company on NASDEC Brandon Davidson - Chairman MCDERMOTT MIDDLE EAST (MME) – a subsidiary of McDermott International MCDERMOTT ARABIAN GULF (MAG) – a subsidiary of McDermott ME Ed Stroller – VP also President of MAG Felicity (Flick) - Secretary at McDermott – Lou’s lover Tia Williams – Secretary at McDermott Steve (Toby) Tobin – Captain of the tug Dana Marguerite SCHLUMBERGER - International oil service company Leonard Jamieson – Manager LA COSA NOSTRA - MAFIA La Cosa Nostra or the Mafia is an organization characterized by a hierarchical structure in which members are organized into “families” or “clans” and are led by a Boss of Bosses known as a Capo de Capi or Don, who is assisted by an underboss, called a Caporegime. The Consigliere, Capos, Soldiers, and Associates follow the chain of command. There is no one single head of all the Mafia families in Italy or the USA. 566

Commission- The Mafia is a decentralized organization with no central authority. The different Mafia families operate independently and do not answer to a single leader. However, in the 1950s, the Apalachin Summit was convened to settle the Luciano-Genovese conflicts. Since that meeting, the Commissions have been secretly held regularly with representatives of all the family bosses across the USA to coordinate family businesses interests and avoid conflict between families.

THE HIERARCHY 1. Boss of Bosses (Capo de Capi) – The head of the Mafia family who makes all the important decisions and is usually the most powerful member of the extended family.

2. Boss (Don or Capo) - The Boss or Don of all the other Capos or Bosses 3. Underboss (Caporegime) - The second-in-command to the Boss, he is usually the Boss’s son or nephew and is responsible for overseeing the day-to-day operations of the family.

4. Consigliere - The Boss’s advisor and confidant. He is usually a very experienced member of the family and is responsible for giving the Boss advice on all matters.

5. Capos - The captains of the different crews within the Mafia family. They are responsible for overseeing the activities of their soldiers and associates.

6. Soldiers - The lowest-ranking members of the Mafia.

They are responsible for carrying out the orders of the Capos.

7. Associates – Usually not of Italian blood, who are associated with the Mafia but are not full members. They may be involved in illegal activities, but they do not have the same rights and privileges as full members.

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Appendix II Foreign Words, Phrases, Names ARABIC WORDS USED PRAYERS/RELIGIOUS TERMS Fajr – The dawn prayer Dhuhr – The noon prayer Asr – The afternoon prayer Maghrib – The sunset prayer Isha’a – The evening prayer Al hamdu lillaah – Praise be to God Allahu Akbar – “God is Great.”

Eid Adh’ha – Islamic festival meaning “Feast of Sacrifice” and marks the culmination of the hajj (pilgrimage) rites Eid al-Fitr – Islamic festival marking the end of the fast of Ramadan Essalam – Mosque in the Netherlands, literally meaning “The Peace” Fi Amanillah – Go with the safety of Allah or May Allah Protect You Haram – Something that is forbidden under the laws of Islam Harem – A place in a Muslim household for women Imam – Leader of Prayers Inshallah – God Willing Jabril – The Angel Gabriel Kaabah – The holiest mosque located in the holy city of Mecca Khalifa – The title given to the successor of the Prophet Mohammed (PUBH) 568

Mosque Muezzin Mullah Ramadan

Sharia

Sujud Sunni and Shi’ite

Wallah Billah PBUH

– Moslem house of worship – The man who calls Muslims to prayer from the minaret of a mosque – A Muslim learned in Islamic theology and sacred law – The Moslem holy month where everyone must abstain from food and drink from the first light at dawn to sunset – An Islamic canonical law based on the teachings of the Koran and the traditions of the Prophet (Hadith and Sunna), prescribing both religious and secular duties and ssometimes retributive penalties for lawbreaking – prostrate position for prayers – Sunnis focus on following the Prophet’s example whereas Shi’a focus on the lineage of Muhammad’s family through a series of Imams. The Sunnis, majority of Muslims in the world believe that anybody can lead and interpret Islam, whereas the Shi’a believe that the direct descendants of the Prophet Muhammad have a birthright to lead Muslims and interpret law.

– Swearing an oath to God – “Peace Be Upon Him,” said after saying the name of the Prophet

GULF ARABIC WORDS & PHRASES Abou – “Father of” Abra – Means to cross over. The term was given to the brightly painted boats used as water taxis in Dubai.

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Ahlan wa sahlan Abyäd Saqr Al

– “Welcome” – The “White Falcon” – The Arabic article “the” or “of” — for example, with tribal names, it can be Al Maktoum (of the Maktoum tribe), whereas it could be Al Sayegh (the Sayegh) Al Mukha – Arabic coffee grown in Yemen As-Salaamu Aleekum – “Peace be with you” Sadiqi – “My friend” Ayreh Feek – “Fuck you” Baksheesh – “Gratuity or tip.” In some cases, it is used to describe a bribe or pay off.

Barajeel – A unique tall square tower, built of coral and mortar designed to catch breeze to cool houses.

Bin – “Son of” Bint – “Daughter of” Dallah – Name for an Arab coffee pot Dhow – A traditional Arab ship made of wood powered by motors or sail or both Djambia – The traditional curved knife of the Yemeni.

Dukhaan – “Black” or “Smoke” Eid – Moslem festival following Ramadan Faloos – “Money” Fi Saḥitkum – Toast – “To your good health” Foutah – The embroidered skirt or body wrap, worn by Yemen and Omani men.

Fursah saeeda – Pleased to meet you.” The literal translation is “happy opportunity” Habibi – “My darling” or “my friend.” Habibiti (Feminine) Hadha hu – “With you” 570

Hujum Imshii Ismi Jerz Jinn Jundi Kam Khaleej Khaleegi Arabic

– “Attack” – “To walk, or leave” – “My name is” – Small axe carried by Shihuh tribesmen – “Spirit or ghost” – “Soldier” – “How much” – “Gulf,” referring to the Arabian Gulf – The Arabic dialect spoke in the Gulf Shaikhdoms Khanjar – Traditional curved knife of the Oman Khezaam – A small peg placed in a camel’s nose, tied through a small hole in their nose with a string attached used to steer it Khor – “Creek,” natural inlet from the sea.

Khorj – A camel saddle La – “No” Ma’ak – “With you” Mawjood – “Is (name of person) available” Ma’salama – “Good Bye” Mafi Mushkila – “No Problem” Mafraj – The highest and most pleasant room in the multi-level Yemen house Majlis – Room where Arabs gather socially.

Also means a type of city council.

Min Fadlik – “Please” Moka – Arabic coffee grown in Yemen Mua’atamad – The British Political Agent Mudeer Al Madrassah– “Head or boss” of the Madrassah (school). Together they mean Principal or Headmaster.

Muraggabat – Location of Main Police station in Dubai Na’am – “Yes” 571

Nakhuda Oudh

Qaat Qailulah Qawiyy Qufaz Alsaqr ‘Aw Alqufaaz Ras Rassan Riyal

Ruboul

Sabkha

Sadiqqi or Sadik Saqr Sahtein Shaitan Shamal Sheeshah

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– “Captain” of a Dhow – “Frankincense” or other incense. Also, the name of a musical Iinstrument, the lute, similar to guitar but with an oval body.

– A green leaf narcotic chewed by the Yemeni’s – Mid afternoon nap – “Strong” – Falconer’s Glove – “Head” – The harness with the reins connect to the Khezaam in a camel’s nose.

– The Saudi Arabian unit of currency used in the Trucial States before the Dirham currency was introduced after the formation of the Federation – The medicine chant used by the Jebalis to drive out the evil spirit from the body of a sick person.

– Muddy soil in the in the salty coastal flats. The result of tidal flooding and evaporation – “My friend” – “Falcon – Also the name of Ras Al Khaimah Ruler.

– “To your health at meals” as a toast – “Devil” – A northwesterly wind/sandstorm – The Arab water pipe for smoking regular or flavored tobacco. Called “hubbly bubbly”’ or “Hooka” in the West.

Shihuh

– A mountain tribe who live in the Oman’s Musandam Peninsula. They are considered to be wild men by the desert tribes.

Shu Akhbar – “What is the news?” This is a standard way to begin a conversation or is used as a greeting.

Shukron – “Thank you” Subhaan Allah Shaikhi – An invocation that recognizes the glory of God Sukkari – “Sweet,” the best date in Arabia Taakal – “Eat” Tablah – A type of drum much like a bongo drum. The head is usually covered in goat or other animal skin.

Taruuh – “Command “ Taruuh! Imshii!

– “Go Away” Thamaaniin – The number 80 Tisbah ‘ala khayr – “Good Night” literally “May you wake up to goodness” Wa Aleekum is-salaam – “And peace be upon you.” A reply to As-salaamu aleekum Wadi – A mountain pass that carries water to the sea during the rainy season and, used as passage routes during the dry season.

Wagh – “Face” Wastah – A term to describe assistance and influence Yella – “Let’s go” Yumn – “Blessing and prosperity” Zaghrouta – The shrill, trilling sound made by Arab women, known as the Cry of Joy.

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ARABIC GEOGRAPHY OR TRIBAL NAMES Bab-el-Mandeb – The Gate of Lamentation waterway that connects the Gulf of Aden with the Red Sea. Bandar Abbas – City on Iranian Gulf Coast Bazaar/Souk – A market in a Middle Eastern country Bedou – Individual nomads who move around with grazing animals Bedouin – Groups or tribes of Bedou/Nomads Bedou Telegraph – Unofficial and usually covert communication between Arabs Deerah – The area over which a tribe claimed water/grazing rights.

Digdagga – An agriculture area in Ras Al Khaimah Hajar Mountains – Mountain chain in The Musandam Hurghada – Small Egyptian port in the Red Sea Jebal – The Arabic word “mountain” Jebali – Term used to describe a mountain person of the Dhofar region of Oman in the Musandam and the Southern border mountain region of Yemen.

Jebel Jais – Highest point in Ras Al Khaimah’s Hajar mountains where USA listening post was located and is now a tourist destination.

Khasab – Village at the tip of the Musandam peninsula Khor – Inlet from sea Khor Ash Sham – Inlet of Khasab Bay Ras Mohammed – A location in Egypt at the head of the Sanai Peninsula Rub al Khali – “The Empty Quarter,” A desert in the Arabian Peninsula, Sham – Village in Musandam 574

Shihuh Zabeel

– Name of a tribe in Musandam – Area in Dubai where the Rulers Palace is located

ARAB CLOTHING Abaayah – A black robe which covers the clothing, worn by an Arab woman Bisht – Elaborate robe wore by a man Burka – A black fabric mask which covers the top half of the face and worn by some Arab women when they are in public.

Dishdasha – A long white robe worn by Arab men in the Arabian Gulf and Saudi Arabia.

Ghutra – A headdress worn by Arab men in the Arabian Gulf and Saudi Arabia.

Higal – The black rope to hold on the ghutra ARAB ARCHITECTURE & BUILDING MATERIALS Barajeel – A unique tall square tower, built of coral and mortar designed to catch breeze to cool houses Barasti – A date palm reed used to make houses, fences, boats etc.

Falaj – A system of channels or aqueducts to carry water ARABIC FOOD OR DRINK Abenah – Thick Creamy Cheese Al Mukha – Coffee growing area of Yemen Baba Ghanoush – Char-grilled eggplant dip Batatis Arabian – Arabian potatoes Falafel – Deep-fried patties made of spiced ground chickpeas 575

Fatayer Fattoush Hommus Kibbeh Laban Luban Mezze Ouzi Ouzo Pita Qahwa Sambusek Tabbouleh Warak Enab

– Small pastry filled with spinach, meat or cheese.”

– A chopped salad of toasted croutons, cucumbers, tomatoes and mint.

– Purée of Chickpeas – Little nuggets of ground lamb and spices – Yogurt drink – A natural chewing gum – Meal of mixed foods – Whole lamb baked over rice – Anis flavored liquor – Greek or Lebanese – Flat/round Arabic bread – Arabic Coffee – Triangular pies filled with meat, cheese or spinach English.

– Salad of burghul, tomato, mint and parsley – Stuffed vine leaves

ITALIAN WORDS & PHRASES Barista – Italian for coffee preparer and server Bastardo – “Bastard” Bravo – “Good Boy” Brisca or Briscola – Italian card game Buon Viaggio – “Farewell” or “Have a good trip” Buona fortuna – “Good Luck” Buongiorno – “Good Morning” Capo di tutti Capi – “Boss of Bosses” Caporegime or Capo – The head or high-ranking member of a Mafia family Castrato – Italian word (plural: castrati) for a type of classical male singing voice equivalent 576

to that of a soprano, mezzo-soprano, or contralto. The voice is produced by castration of the singer before puberty Ciao –“Good Bye” or “Hello” in Italian Consigliere – Advisor to a Capo or Don Cumba – Slang for Cumpare Cumpare – A respected older man Dominica – Sunday Don – Boss who answers to the family Capo di tutti Capi Finito – Finished or over Finocchio – Homosexual Fratello maggiore – Oldest brother in Italian Grazie – “Thank you” La familia – “The Family” Lupara – A sawed-off shotgun of the break-open type Mangiamo – Let’s eat Mea culpa – Latin for acknowledgment of one’s fault or error Mio Cugino – “My cousin” Mio Nipoti – “Nephew” Mio Zio – “Uncle” Omertà – “Silence” used in Sicily Paisano – a compatriot – close friend of Italian descent Pene –“Penis” Per Favore, Mangia – “Please let’s eat” Pezzonovante – “Big shot” used in Sicily Pisan or Pisano – “Friend” Prima colazione – “Breakfast” Pronto – Word used to answer the phone, literally meaning “Ready” Salute – Toast. “To your health” 577

Va Fangoo Venga qui WOP

– “Go fuck yourself” – “Come here” or “Let’s go” – A racial slur for an Italian or person of Italian heritage meaning Working without Papers or Working on Pavement

OTHER FOREIGN LANGUAGE WORDS Ardabil, Tabriz – Names of Iranian carpets Blat – Cuban term for Wasta Cojone – Spanish term for testicles Chai – “Tea” Chutzpah – Hebrew or Yiddish meaning nervy or extreme arrogance, brazen presumption.

Coup De Grâce – The final action or event in French Coup D’état – A seizure and removal of a government and its powers.

DAGO – Insulting and contemptuous term for a person of Italian descent Force Majeure – French for unforeseeable circumstances, preventing fulfilling a contract Haganah – The underground Jewish militia in Palestine (1920–48) that became the national army of Israel after the partition of Palestine in 1948 Harijan – A member of a hereditary Hindu group; - lowest social and ritual status. This is the name given to the Untouchables of India by Mahatma Gandhi, and literally means the “Beloved of God” Inner Sanctum – French for sacred place Jus primae noctis – French-Right of the First Night’ the right to sexual relations with subordinate women on their wedding nights.

Masseur – Male massage specialist in French 578

Masseuse Mazltof Mentsh

Moked Mons Veneris Nains, Isphani Oy vey

Persona non grata Sahib

Sante Thoub

– Female massage specialist in French – “Good Luck,” in Hebrew or Yiddish – Hebrew or Yiddish meaning an honorable, decent person, an authentic person, a person who helps you when you need help.

– Israeli word to Focus –Israeli name of air operation in 1967 Six-day War – The female pubic area – Names of Iranian carpets – A Hebrew or Yiddish term meaning exclamation of dismay, grief, or exasperation” – An unacceptable or unwelcome person.

– An Indian term meaning “master” derived from the Arabic root word meaning friend.

– “Cheers” in French – White robe worn by men in Jordan

MILITARY TERMS AK-47 – An automatic rifle developed by Russian General Mikhail Kalashnikov.

Beretta 70 – A 22 caliber handgun a favorite of the Mossad Clam – The same as a Limpet mine but smaller Defense Force – An organized and trained force from one of the larger Trucial States or the combined force from all of the states. The term is also used by the British forces in the Gulf.

Limpet – A Naval mine attached to a target by strong magnets to a ship’s hull or other target named after a species of snail.

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Security Force

DIVING TERMS BC

– Private guard for a Ruler and his family drawn from loyal tribe members

– A Buoyancy Compensator (BC), also called a Buoyancy Control Device (BCD is a type of vest which is worn by divers to establish FENZY – An adjustable buoyancy life jacket (ABLJ) (European terminology) or buoyancy compensator (BC) (North American terminology), developed in 1961 by Maurice Fenz PADI pre dive check – BWARF – B -- BCD/Buoyancy, W–Weight, R–-Releases, A–-Air, F–Final check REGULATOR – A pressure device that controls the pressure of breathing air for diving.

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Appendix III Bibliography MUST READ Rashid’s Legacy: The Genesis of the Maktoum Family and the History of Dubai Graeme Wilson Published by Media Prima Dubai, 2006 The Father of Dubai Shaikh Rashid bin Saeed Al Maktoum Graeme Wilson Published by Media Prima Dubai, 1999 Saqr: Fifty Years and More Graeme Wilson Published by Media Prima Dubai, 2007 GREAT READING & REFERENCE The Making of the Modern Gulf States Rosemarie Zahlan Published by Ithaca Press New York, Rev. 1999 Arabian Sands Wilfred Thesiger Published by Penguin Books Ltd., 1976 First Edition 1959 581

My Vision - Challenges in the Race for Excellence Shaikh Mohammed Bin Rashid Al Maktoum Published by Motivate Publishing, Dubai and The Arab Institute for Research and Publication, Beirut, 2006 Aesthetics and Rituals in the United Arab Emirates: The Anthropology of Food and Personal Adornment among Arabian Women Aida S. Kanafani Published by the American University of Beirut Beirut, 1983 The Dubai Handbook Dr. Erhard F. Gabriel, Institute for Applied Economic Geography Published by the Dubai Petroleum Company, 1987 A Hundred Million Dollars a Day Michael Field Published by Sidgewick and Jackson London, 1975 The Myth of Arab Piracy in the Gulf HRH Shaikh Sultan Al Qassami, Ph.D. Thesis Published by Croom, Helm London, First Publication, 1986 Second Edition, Routledge, 1988 The Origins of the UAE Rosemarie Said Zahlan Published by St. Martin’s Press New York, 1978

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The Seven Shaikhdoms Ronald Codrai, Published by Stacey International Dubai, 1990 The UAE: A Modern History Mohammed Morsey Abdulla Published by Croon, Helm London, 1978 Government of Dubai, Department of Tourism and Commerce Marketing Department http://www.uae-dubai.com/ 8 Penn Center, 19th floor Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, 19103 Tel:(215) 751-9750 Fax:(215) 751-9551 E-mail:dubaiusa@aol.com *The Duke of Dubai http://www.thedukeofdubai.com/ Luigi Falconi (pseudonym for John Dragonetti) Published by Headline Books USA, 2008 * The Falcon and the Mafia is basically a prequel to this novel with a carryover of characters and stories but set in a much later time period.

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Appendix IV Chronology of Events March 18, 1965 to September 14, 1967

PART I 1965 AO ANTE OLEUM (Before Oil) PROLOGUE Chapter 1 Temptation in the Desert Thursday morning, March 18, 1965 - Desert scene Shaikh Rashid and Luigi Falconi.

Chapter 2 The Meeting Thursday afternoon, March 18, 1965 - Meeting with Majid bin Jabir at his villa – Discusses loan and Lou proposes bringing MOMS and McDermott to Dubai.

Chapter 3 Scouting the Terrain Friday, March 19, 1965 – Tim Johnson takes Luigi on Dubai city tour and to RAK. Chapter 4 A Royal Salute Friday evening, March 19, 1965 – Dinner in RAK Hotel with Shaikh Hamid bin Saqr, son of RAK Ruler.

Chapter 5 The Road Not Taken Saturday, March 20, 1965 – Drives from RAK to Dubai.

Meeting at Tim’s house with Iskar Tandoody. Luigi becomes partners in DOODS. Chapter 6 The Bagman Sunday Morning, March 21,1965 – Lou meets with Majid in his office on Creek. Family agrees to loan and to bring in 584

McDermott and set up MOMS. Also agree to bring in Nero, and partnership in casino and oil concession in RAK. Chapter 7 Ras al Khaimah Sunday afternoon, March 21, 1965 – Luigi meets Shaikh Saqr, Ruler of RAK, and son Khalil and advisor Toufiq, and gets approval for Casino and to find an oil company to take oil concession. – Flies over Abu Musa. Stays in RAK several days.

Chapter 8 Monday with Mohammed Monday, March 22, 1965 – Visits Shams village with Mohammed and Abdulla. Gun battle in Musandam. Stays the night at British naval base in Khasab – Meets Colonel Sam Sweeney.

Chapter 9 Shaking Down the Shaikh Tuesday, March 23, 1965 –Leaves Khasab and visit Shaikh Saqr hunting camp. Gets exclusivity letter for oil concession in RAK – Flies back to Dubai. Meets young Shaikh Saud.

Chapter 10 The Chronicle of Rocky Tuesday, March 23, 1965 – Returns to Dubai Hotel in the early morning and calls Don Fabio.

Wednesday, March 24, 1965 – Meets Majid shows letter from RAK – Sets up partnerships for concession, casino and DOODS. Tells Story of Uncle Fabio to Majid.

Chapter 11 Meeting the King of Kings Wednesday evening, March 24, 1965 –Majid takes Luigi to meet Shaikh Rashid of Dubai. Also meets young Shaikh Mohammed. Gets permission from Ruler to open Ten Tola.

Chapter 12 Paris of the Middle East Thursday, March 25, 1965 – Lou flies to Beirut to meet cousin Frankie and Albert Abuzian, owner of Casino du Liban.

Goes out on the town with Frankie.

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Chapter 13 London Lawyers Sunday, March 28, 1965 – Lou flies to London and meets Ahmed Zaki Yamani on a plane. Monday - Wednesday meets lawyer.

Chapter 14 The Big Easy Thursday, April 1, 1965 – Lou flies to New Orleans, Meet Uncle Fabio and Meyer. Family time.

Tuesday, April 6, 1965 - The “Gretna Gulf Coast Conference”.

Wednesday, April 7, 1965 – Lou has lunch with Tony and discusses Uncle Fabio.

Friday, April 9, 1965 – Lou and Tony work on Thursday and Friday. Go to Vegas for the weekend.

Chapter 15 Vegas Nights Monday, April 12, 1965 – Lou meets with lawyer Carl Conetti and his brother Tony. Hung over from Vegas.

Tuesday, April 13, 1965 - Hosts lunch at Antoine’s Restaurant for CPC oil company Chairman Scotty La Rouche, sons Maccie and Duffy and PA Marie Montaigne.

Wednesday, April 14, 1965 - Finalize agreements for oil concession. Late afternoon April 14, 1965, Lou meets the fiddler, Nero Santoro with Uncle Fabio.

Chapter 16 Back in Dubai Wednesday, April 21, 1965 – Luigi flies back in Dubai via Beirut to meet Albert and Ahmed bin Ladin contractor for Ten Tola and Casino.

Saturday morning, April 24, 1965 – Meets Tim to assist Nero visit.

Sunday afternoon, April 25, 1965 - Lou meets Toufiq to finalize concession agreement for signing by RAK Ruler.

Tuesday, April 27, 1965 – Meets Sam Sweeney and makes him partner in Ten Tola Thursday Evening, April 29, 1965 – Lou meets Tim and Iskar at Safari Club for dinner. Meets Sal Davis watch warehouse 586

fire.

Chapter 17 Birds of a Feather Wednesday, May 12 1965 - The La Rouche group arrives for signing.

Thursday, May 13, 1965 – Signing ceremony at Rulers majlis.

Son Saud present.

Friday, May 14 1965 – Meets Shaikh Rashid with Majid to present white falcon.

Chapter 18 The Metamorphosis of Dubai June, July, August, 1965 – Summer in Dubai Friday, October 1, 1965 – Sam returns to Dubai from Holiday.

Monday, October 4, 1965 – Meetings with Head of Municipality and Town Planner October 5, - 28, 1965 – Lou and Sam meet with builders contractors and work on presentations for the meeting of the Capos in NOLA. Friday October 29, 1965 - Lou travels to NOLA for meeting with the Capos.

Tuesday November 2, 1965 – Lou arrives in NOLA. Monday November 8, 1965 – Practice presentation with Uncle Fabio and Meyer Monday November 15, 1965 - Meeting with Capos in Las Vegas.

PART II 1967 – 70 THE TIMES THEY are a—CHANGIN’ Chapter 19 The Ten Tola Friday, April 7, 1967 – Lou meets Jabir at villa regarding loans repayments and threatens him.

Thursday, April 13, 1967 – Prepares for Grand Opening of Ten Tola.

Thursday, April 27, 1967 – Opening night of Ten Tola. Iskar incident to Sinatra song.

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Chapter 20 My Neighbor’s Neighbor Sunday, April 30, 1967 – Sam and Lou monitor Pat’s conversation about coming Israeli war. Pat recruits Lou to help spy for Israel and introduces him to Mossad agent, Wolfgang Leader.

Monday, May 1, 1967 – Recruits friend Mohammed of RAK, to protect Luca. Gives Pat OK to use Luca.

Chapter 21 The Unsuspecting Spy Tuesday, May 9, 1967 - Luca makes a teacher recruiting trip to Jordan.

Friday, May 12, 1967 – Beach BBQ at Lou’s beach villa.

Monday, May 15, 1967 Luca interviews teacher. Lou’s briefcase stolen. Mohammed fights spies and recovers Lou’s briefcase with document about Jordan’s Air defense and plane locations.

Friday, May 19, 1967 – Lou and family collect him at airport.

Lou tells Pat about Jordan theft and gives Pat recovered information.

Tuesday, May 23, 1967 – Poker game at Leroy’s house.

Shaikh Mohammed visits. Salvage dive trip planned.

Chapter 22 The Poseidon Project Thursday, May 25, 1967 – Dive trip to salvage contraband.

Monday morning, May 29, 1967 – Frankie brings gift of tola bars and Rolex watches to Lou’s office.

Chapter 23 Fossils of Fuels Monday, May 29, 1967 – Maccie calls Lou to talk about Iran navy hassling CPG boats.

Tuesday, May 30, 1967 – Lou meets Shaikh Saqr and hears story of Bahrain/Iran and Abu Musa claim. Back at Ten Tola Sam and Luigi discuss problem with Iran and possible loss of concession.

Wednesday, May 31, 1967 – Lou orders Maccie to have CGP speed up drilling.

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Friday, June 2, 1967 - Mohammed, Sam Tim, Abdulla, go to Musandam to find oil seep.

Saturday, June 3, 1967 - Pat and Lou meet for lunch and discuss political situation.

Chapter 24 The Six Day War Monday, June 5, 1967 – Sam and Lou listen to BBC as Arab Israeli Six-Day War breaks out. Lou goes to school board meeting and meets Pat. Chapter 25 Revelations Monday, June 12, 1967 – After war, Iranians again hassle CPC workboats.

Tuesday, June 13, 1967 – Dinner with Pat, Ann, Lou and Felicity.

Wednesday, June 14, 1967 – Lou and Pat meet on beach, and Pat tells Lou about drug and arms smuggling using MOMS’ boats and Majid’s dhows. Lou and Sam meet to discuss.

Thursday, June 15, 1967 - Lou and Sam find out who is doing smuggling. Search workboat and find drugs. Devise plan to tell Shaikh Mohammed.

Chapter 26 The Musandam Alliance Wednesday, June 21, 1967 – Trip on Puss and Hoots with Shaikh Mohammed and Dhahi. Discovery of drugs onboard.

Question staff and Captain threatened. Mohammed and Lou come to agreement.

Chapter 27 The Suakin Trough Sunday, June 25, 1967 – Lou, Frankie and Sam make plan to sink Puss and Hoots in Red Sea with drugs onboard. Lou and Frankie do the deed. Frankie almost drowns and is helped by Mossad and Wolfgang.

Chapter 28 Independence Day Sunday, July 2, 1967 – Lou goes to NOLA to tell family about 589

problems. Stops in Beirut to meet Albert.

Tuesday, July 4, 1967 – Lou attends family picnic in NOLA, meets Uncle Fabio. Lou is promoted to Don. Saturday, July 8, 1967 – Ceremony for investiture of Lou to Don Luigi. Lou summoned to meet Shaikh Mohammed in London.

Chapter 29 The Two Princes Monday, July 10, 1967 – Lou meets Mohammed and tells him about Puss and Hoots. They discuss Problem with RAK concession. Mohammed advises Lou on Iran and the strategy of Iran regarding Greater Tunb Island and Bahrain. Lou meets Carl in London, draws up documents. Hashashin hit on Lou revealed by Mohammed. Mohammed tells Dhahi to give Lou undercover guards.

Chapter 30 Chess without Rules Tuesday, July 11, 1967 – Lou returns to Dubai and makes strategy plans with Sam. Thursday, July 13, 1967 - Lou meets Maccie and Sam about drilling. Finds out Nick, Khalil and Scotty working together for Iranian Concession and to take over RAK concession. Sam calls contacts in SA. Chapter 31 Angels and Assassins Friday, July 14, 1967 – Sam goes to SA to meet mercenary Mad Mike Hoare.

Wednesday, July 19, 1967 - Josh and Lou go to RAK. Attacked in assassination attempt on road back to Dubai. Dhahi has undercover man protecting them.

Thursday, July 20, 1967 – Dinner at Luca and Susan Luchetti.

Chapter 32 Solving the Enigma Friday, July 21, 1967 – Lou meets Pat who offers him a deal to work with the NSA to help convince the Ruler of RAK to agree to USA listening post in Musandam. Lou agrees.

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Wednesday, July 26, 1967 – Pat and Lou meet Shaikh Saqr and his son Saud. Pat tells about invasion of Greater Tunb

by Mike Hoare and about coup and drugs. Ruler agrees to listening post.

Thursday, July 27, 1967 – Frankie returns and meets Lou in office. He’s upset that he didn’t tell him about Assassin attempt. They talk to Uncle Fabio. Lou talks alone to Sam in SA. Chapter 33 Tribal Triumvirate Sunday, August 6, 1967 – Lou flies to London. Meets Shaikh Mohammed, and Shaikh Rashid. Lou gets their support and help to get Shaikh Saqr on side. Mohammed and Lou make a pact to work together and get rid of crime and make business legit only. Lou meets Carl in London office the next day and draws up documents for plans and concession cancelling.

Tuesday, August 8, 1967 – Lou leaves London via Beirut and meets Toufiq in airport; they travel together to Dubai. Lou tells him of the plans.

Chapter 34 Planning the Strategy Thursday, August 17, 1967 – Meetings in the war room where all of the planning for defending Abu Musa Islands takes place.

Sunday, August 20, 1967 – Josh and Frankie visit McDermott to scout the towing boat for the rig move.

Thursday, August 24, 1967 - Josh goes to Bandar Abbas and gets important information on rig move.

Chapter 35 The Bedouin Brigade Tuesday, August 29, 1967 – Start of rig move. Frankie and Josh prepare for their underwater demolition task. Limpets mines blow the cable and disable rig. Sam on Abu Musa prepares for mercenary landing. Ruler and son Saud visit.

Landing takes place, and Hoare’s men defeated. Ruler’s son Khalil, Nic and Scotty arrested.

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Wednesday-Friday, August 31-September 1, 1967 – Celebrations in RAK Chapter 36 Karma Sunday, September 3, 1967 – Nic’s interrogation. Iskar’s termination.

Monday, September 4, 1967 – Scotty’s interrogated and agrees to cooperate. Shaikh Khalil sent into exile.

Chapter 37 The Final Fallout Thursday, September 14, 1967 – Lou and Felicity have dinner. He proposes, she rejects the offer and leaves to go back to UK. Nic is terminated like Iskar.

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“A must read, incredibly believable story. A fantastic insight into the Arabic culture and customs of the UAE. A wonderful trip down memory lane for me as an ex- Dubai resident. I couldn’t put it down.”

—Cherry Ward. Hertfordshire. United Kingdom

“I thoroughly enjoyed the Mafia side of this novel and their involvement.

No matter what the obstacle, they always came up with a solution.”

—Linda Genco-Pereira and Giuseppe Pereira, Florida, USA “After living over 40 years in Dubai, and watching this remarkable country develop, I was transported on a journey to 1965 where the characters, though fictional, felt familiar. This is a rebirth of an exhilarating historical adventure about a slice of life in a region that once offered the spicy vibrancy and colour of an era now relegated to modernity, memory and imagination.”

—Linda Mahoney, Dubai, United Arab Emirates “Luigi’s stories are all fiction. When my book is published the real truth of Dubai’s past will be told.”

—Romero Marcello, Businessman, New Orleans “Having lived in the United Arab Emirates for many years I can truly relate to the places, and people talked about in this book. There is no doubt that it will make a great TV miniseries or major screen movie. I can attest to the many things that happened in Dubai in the early years, and what a wonderful, exciting place it was to live. This book brings it all out for the reader to enjoy, and places him in the action. I cannot wait to read the next book in this series.”

—William E. Hall, KBR Oil Field Construction, Calgary

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

A story of the USA Gulf Coast Mafia In Dubai and Ras Al Khaimah 1965-1967 As told by Luigi Falconi to John Dragonetti

As told by Luigi Falconi to John Dragonetti

In 1965, Luigi Falconi, heir apparent to Fabio Falconi, the Capo Maggiore of the US Gulf Coast Mafia, is dispatched to Dubai, a desert trading center in the Middle East, tasked with finalizing a loan deal with the government. His journey unveils the potential to transform the shaikhdom into the next Havana or Las Vegas.

Torn between family loyalty and his dream to transform their business into a legitimate enterprise, Luigi reluctantly aligns himself with his Mafia family’s agenda.

While living in Dubai, he becomes enthralled by the tribal values and cultural intricacies of the Trucial States' rulers and populace, who are trying to reconcile culture and tradition with the encroaching Western world.

Unknown to Luigi, his conniving godfather, Nic Nicandro, undermines him through illicit dealings in drugs and arms. Nic plots Luigi’s demise so he can seize control of the Mafia’s operations and control future oil profits in Dubai and Ras Al Khaimah.

Luigi forms a confederacy of like-minded adventurers including an ex-British SAS officer, a former Green Beret, a school headmaster, a covert CIA agent, and other eccentric expatriates, who join forces with the real heroes, the Rulers of Dubai and Ras Al Khaimah. Together they devise a plan to rid their Shaikhdoms of the dark side of the Mafia.

The Falcon and the Shaikhs

“Wow! What a gripping, searing, and riveting journey this book takes the reader on. When Kelly Mahoney first approached me about this book, I was skeptical that it could rival the great Mafia movies. Seeing the pre-print release of the novel, I’m convinced it will be an awards winning movie, and/or streaming series.”

—Joe Newcomb, Founder and CEO Truth Entertainment, Houston, USA www.truthentertainment.info

In 1972, the author and his family moved from the USA to Cairo, Egypt, to take the position of Headmaster of the Cairo American College. In 1974, he relocated the family to the United Arab Emirates (UAE) to become Headmaster of the American School in Dubai. Three years later, he left the education sector for a new career in business, staying in Dubai with his family until 2013, intermittently residing for brief periods in Doha, Qatar, Dar es Salaam, Tanzania, and Maputo, Mozambique.

As an international businessman he travelled to numerous Middle Eastern countries, developing a fascination with Arab history, culture, and language.

It was the stories, experiences of friends, business associates, and members of the tribal families, as well longtime resident expatriates, that really enthralled him and led to the writing of The Falcon and the Shaikhs, an historical fictional account, of the intricate relationships cultivated between pioneering expatriates and the tribal families who laid the foundation of Dubai and Ras Al Khaimah prior to the formation of the United Arab Emirates in 1971.

The Falcon and the Shaikhs can be considered as a prequel to his first novel, The Duke of Dubai, a fictional parody on some of the real life, eccentric oil field characters who really existed in the 1960s, 70s, and 80s.

“A must read, incredibly believable story. A fantastic insight into the Arabic culture and customs of the UAE. A wonderful trip down memory lane for me as an ex- Dubai resident. I couldn’t put it down.”

—Cherry Ward. Hertfordshire. United Kingdom

“I thoroughly enjoyed the Mafia side of this novel and their involvement.

No matter what the obstacle, they always came up with a solution.”

—Linda Genco-Pereira and Giuseppe Pereira, Florida, USA “After living over 40 years in Dubai, and watching this remarkable country develop, I was transported on a journey to 1965 where the characters, though fictional, felt familiar. This is a rebirth of an exhilarating historical adventure about a slice of life in a region that once offered the spicy vibrancy and colour of an era now relegated to modernity, memory and imagination.”

—Linda Mahoney, Dubai, United Arab Emirates “Luigi’s stories are all fiction. When my book is published the real truth of Dubai’s past will be told.”

—Romero Marcello, Businessman, New Orleans “Having lived in the United Arab Emirates for many years I can truly relate to the places, and people talked about in this book. There is no doubt that it will make a great TV miniseries or major screen movie. I can attest to the many things that happened in Dubai in the early years, and what a wonderful, exciting place it was to live. This book brings it all out for the reader to enjoy, and places him in the action. I cannot wait to read the next book in this series.”

—William E. Hall, KBR Oil Field Construction, Calgary

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

A story of the USA Gulf Coast Mafia In Dubai and Ras Al Khaimah 1965-1967 As told by Luigi Falconi to John Dragonetti

As told by Luigi Falconi to John Dragonetti

In 1965, Luigi Falconi, heir apparent to Fabio Falconi, the Capo Maggiore of the US Gulf Coast Mafia, is dispatched to Dubai, a desert trading center in the Middle East, tasked with finalizing a loan deal with the government. His journey unveils the potential to transform the shaikhdom into the next Havana or Las Vegas.

Torn between family loyalty and his dream to transform their business into a legitimate enterprise, Luigi reluctantly aligns himself with his Mafia family’s agenda.

While living in Dubai, he becomes enthralled by the tribal values and cultural intricacies of the Trucial States' rulers and populace, who are trying to reconcile culture and tradition with the encroaching Western world.

Unknown to Luigi, his conniving godfather, Nic Nicandro, undermines him through illicit dealings in drugs and arms. Nic plots Luigi’s demise so he can seize control of the Mafia’s operations and control future oil profits in Dubai and Ras Al Khaimah.

Luigi forms a confederacy of like-minded adventurers including an ex-British SAS officer, a former Green Beret, a school headmaster, a covert CIA agent, and other eccentric expatriates, who join forces with the real heroes, the Rulers of Dubai and Ras Al Khaimah. Together they devise a plan to rid their Shaikhdoms of the dark side of the Mafia.

The Falcon and the Shaikhs

“Wow! What a gripping, searing, and riveting journey this book takes the reader on. When Kelly Mahoney first approached me about this book, I was skeptical that it could rival the great Mafia movies. Seeing the pre-print release of the novel, I’m convinced it will be an awards winning movie, and/or streaming series.”

—Joe Newcomb, Founder and CEO Truth Entertainment, Houston, USA www.truthentertainment.info

In 1972, the author and his family moved from the USA to Cairo, Egypt, to take the position of Headmaster of the Cairo American College. In 1974, he relocated the family to the United Arab Emirates (UAE) to become Headmaster of the American School in Dubai. Three years later, he left the education sector for a new career in business, staying in Dubai with his family until 2013, intermittently residing for brief periods in Doha, Qatar, Dar es Salaam, Tanzania, and Maputo, Mozambique.

As an international businessman he travelled to numerous Middle Eastern countries, developing a fascination with Arab history, culture, and language.

It was the stories, experiences of friends, business associates, and members of the tribal families, as well longtime resident expatriates, that really enthralled him and led to the writing of The Falcon and the Shaikhs, an historical fictional account, of the intricate relationships cultivated between pioneering expatriates and the tribal families who laid the foundation of Dubai and Ras Al Khaimah prior to the formation of the United Arab Emirates in 1971.

The Falcon and the Shaikhs can be considered as a prequel to his first novel, The Duke of Dubai, a fictional parody on some of the real life, eccentric oil field characters who really existed in the 1960s, 70s, and 80s.