The Last Dance of Dynamite

By Ayman Baroudi

This thrilling story sets in cosmopolitan Dubai follows the lives of characters who, despite their wildly different backgrounds and heritages, are brought together by a determination to survive in a world where sex is a commodity and terrorism and business go hand in hand.

Waleed Adam, who goes under the name of ‘the prince,’ is a victim of political complications and conflict in the Middle East and ends up as a gang leader.

His trusted assistant Salem flees to Iraq and joins forces with the Cobra Group, which is involved in drug smuggling, among other things. As he doesn’t want to be involved with drugs or take a minor role in the gang, the prince flees Syria to start a new life in Dubai. He is soon living in a nightmare and risks becoming a victim of the proxy war in that part of the world.

The prince takes the opportunity to run the 10 Tola Bar, a haven for the elite looking for fun and prostitutes struggling to live. Most of the bar regulars have fled dictator regimes as he has.

One of these is Sonya, a Russian dominatrix and prostitute, who has recently arrived from Libya. Her involvement with high-ranking officers and officials close to Muammar al-Gaddafi leads her to work for Russian intelligence. Also, there is Ana, one of the millions of victims of Mao Zedong, the founding father of the People’s Republic of China. She is forced to work as a prostitute and later becomes a spy who betrays the prince before meeting a brutal death.

Another bar regular is Noor Ali, who considers that Iran is no longer his home while the theocrats are in power. Since leaving, his life has taken an unexpected direction. He becomes involved with the Iranian Office of Liberation Movements and works directly with Major Azartash, an influential officer in the Jerusalem Forces.

Noor Ali’s actions create a turning point in Sonya and the prince’s lives when he involves them in a kidnapping mission. He promised Sonya a million dollars if she cooperates in kidnapping her friend Hamad, a Qatar royal family member. The prince is promised the same for acting as a mediator.

But the kidnapping mission ends in disaster, leads to horrible consequences of revenge and counter revenge.

Through the novel’s breathtaking conflicts, the reader will discover like never before the secret life’s ambiance in the Middle East.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 4, 2021
• ISBN: 9781664140851

Ayman Baroudi

Love had been the trigger that made me write my first short story when I was ten years only while life experience stood behind writing my first novel when I turned into the fifties. Love taught me that with every new woman, we write a new story until we find out that knowing one woman well is equal to unfold the secret of the universe. All went on well till the proxy war broke out in my country Syria, and I went against my old beliefs. The first challenge was writing this novel in English rather than my mother language with the hope of making my voice heard. The second was writing about the deep association of dogma, sex, and money, and their vital influence over the political standings. And as it’s said, everything happens for a reason. So we may one day turn the page, go beyond national, cultural, or religious boundaries and work together to have a united world free from wars and borders.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

T he prince got out of his comfortable king-sized bed and walked out onto the balcony. His hotel room was on the twenty-second floor and offered an extensive view of the sea. That seemingly endless expanse of aquamarine could be calm and comforting or stormy and cruel, promising and inviting or dangerous and deadly.

Swimming in the waves takes similar skills to those needed to navigate the unmerciful ups and downs of life. You need to stay relaxed and in tune with the waves to reach the shore, he thought. He eyed his muscular body, admiring the reflection of the sun on his muscles. I’m in one piece and I’m still alive.

By now he should have been in his grave. But he was a survivor. And he refused to die before life had compensated him for the hardships he’d had to endure.

He had a clear plan for establishing a business in Dubai. Opening a bar would enable him to test the waters and improve his finances before he took his next ambitious step. The modest sum he’d managed to save after the Syrian government had confiscated his properties would be enough capital. But he needed to look for more financial support. That meant attracting investors. There were so many expenses to cover—renting a space, building up stock, hiring and paying staff, insurance, decorating, and many other aspects of opening and running a bar. He couldn’t cover all that alone.

The prince gazed down at the beach for a long moment, checking out the young women sunbathing in their colorful bikinis. Then he flashed another broad smile and left the balcony.

***

After a warm shower, the prince changed into a white linen suit, white cotton shirt, and a black tie. It was suitable for the Dubai hot weather, and he still resembled the Dubaian men who were usually clothed in white dishdashis.

He looked at himself in the large mirror and liked what he saw. Perfect. I look like I mean business but still friendly enough to run a bar. Then he splashed on Dior Homme cologne and put on his gold Rolex.

By now, it was almost midday. He needed to hurry as the bars were about to open. Grabbing his laptop and cell phone, he rushed out of his room and down to the parking lot where he’d left his rented gray Porsche 718 Cayman. Yes, it was beyond his means. He hadn’t yet set up his business and his modest savings were dwindling. But he needed to look right. He needed the right image if he was going to succeed.

He looked around before he got into his Porsche to make sure nobody was following him. Soon he was racing at the maximum speed allowed on Dubai roads.

***

Of all bars in Dubai, Prince Waleed was most relaxed in the 10 Tola Bar based in the 10 Tola Hotel, a couple of blocks south of Al Fahidi Street. He liked its ambiance and interior design; the stained-glass ceiling and mirrors, the old wood counter with rusty brass-tone footrests, and especially the Christmas-like color scheme of green walls and chairs and bright-red sofas. Plus, he admired the pragmatic way in which the bar’s manager, Sayed Gali, had created a profitable business without jeopardizing its quality.

The bar’s unwritten rules allowed in a few classy prostitutes as long they behaved themselves and treated the regulars with respect. This bar attracted a high-class clientele who used the place as a retreat in which to escape the stresses of their hectic and busy days.

The prince wanted to follow a business model like that of the Death & Co Bar, which he used to own in Damascus’s old town. It had offered a friendly place for regular customers who were looking for a good time while staying out of trouble.

With it being so early, the 10 Tola Bar was quiet. The only sounds being the low hum of chatter and the occasional clink of glass; there was no one there except the Georgian bartender Joseph, the Romanian waiter Natali, her Filipina friend and coworker Angeli, and few patrons.

Sitting at the counter was Noor Ali Mirza, owner of the Noor Ali Exchange Company. He was drinking a draft beer and chatting with Ajeet Ajay, an Indian gold merchant and the hotel owner. At a small round table not far from the counter sat the lawyer Mahdi Haider and Jassem, a friendly Dubaian young man, someone who would soon open up an unexpected business opportunity for Prince Waleed.

The bar was usually packed after six when the men left their offices and the working girls started to arrive, five to seven of them at any one time. The most dynamic was Sonya, a bossy blonde Russian who knew exactly how to attract submissive men. And next was Nasiba, an Uzbek who was rightly proud of her jet-black hair and the ancient history of Uzbekistan, her home country which sparkled under the bright sun like pearls scattered along the Silk Road.

The only woman to come in during the day was An or as they called her in Dubai, Ana. She was a poor Chinese woman who must have been over forty although she looked much younger. She wasn’t as stylish as the other women who attended the bar and was a lot older than them, but the bar’s manager Sayed Gali felt sympathy toward her and gave her special permission to work from the bar.

Ana was one of the millions of victims of Mao Zedong, the founding father of the People’s Republic of China. He’d said when he was in power, People say that poverty is bad, but in fact, poverty is good. The poorer people are, the more revolutionary they are. It is dreadful to imagine a time when everyone will be rich. From a surplus of calories, people will have two heads and four legs. Ana never had a surplus of calories and had only one head and two legs. And she had to sell her body to survive.

The bar manager wasn’t the only one who sympathized with Ana; the prince had invited her to join him for a drink several times. It had never occurred to him that this would make Nasiba jealous.

Nasiba hadn’t bothered telling the prince she deserved to be his favorite rather than an old Chinese woman who didn’t even know how to wear makeup or put on two pieces of clothing that went together.

When the Prince showed at the bar, every head turned toward him.

Hi, Prince!

Prince Waleed!

How are you today?

At that moment, he wanted to be alone—for his first drink at least. But Ajeet stopped him before he could head to his favorite seat in the far corner. We’re one family here. Why sit alone? Ajeet insisted.

The prince had no choice but to give in. It wouldn’t be polite to refuse. Plus he was there to talk with people already living in Dubai, those who had knowledge and business experience. These were the people who could introduce him to potential investors.

Ajeet ordered more drinks and moved so the prince could sit between him and Noor Ali. We’re talking about the Indian fondness of gold and why gold smuggling is so important in India.

The prince shrugged and stared at Ajeet blankly. He worried that he was walking into a trap and that they were aware of his upbringing in a smuggling gang.

People say Indians are crazy about gold, Ajeet continued. Yes, we are. Who can deny it? There are auspicious days to buy gold in the Hindu calendar and gold is the symbol of the goddess Lakshmi. It’s highly auspicious—

"What about the fact that you eat gold?" Noor Ali interrupted.

You eat gold? the Prince asked.

Cheers, Ajeet raised his glass and took a deep gulp. Yes, we do eat gold. Some Indian desserts are decorated with gold leaf. Some five-star hotels serve about five kilos of edible gold to its dining guests annually. The edible-gold budget for a place like that can easily be as high as half a million dollars a year.

But it was a disaster for India, Noor Ali said carefully. The excessive demand meant gold had to be imported and that led to a drastic devaluation of the rupee.

Ajeet put an arm on the prince’s shoulders and continued. To correct the balance of trade, the government imposed taxes and legal restrictions on gold imports.

The prince wondered where this endless talk of eating gold and the Indian economy would lead. Out of courtesy, he managed a relaxed smile and the short comment, Smart.

Not smart at all, Ajeet objected. The rise in duty on imports triggered smugglers to make a fortune out of smuggling gold into India.

It’s estimated about seven hundred kilos of gold is smuggled into India every day, Noor Ali said firmly. Smugglers are using really innovative ways to bring it in.

Ajeet said excitedly, Sometimes gold is melted into seed-shaped chips and hidden in dates from Dubai. Or it’s ground into granules and mixed with other metals to look like ore.

Annoyed by the smell of Ajeet’s armpit, the prince pulled back and asked casually, Do you mean Dubai is the source—

Dubai or Singapore, said Ajeet. Gold in Dubai is the cheapest in the world.

Not to forget the Indian business community in Dubai, added Noor Ali, and its strong networks.

Most of us here belong to business families, said Ajeet while he signaled Joseph for more beer. Blood, marriage, or adoption bind us … our bond is blood deep.

Same thing with us in the 10 Tola Bar! burst in Noor Ali. We are one!

Definitely, said Ajeet, "that’s our bar’s slogan—We Are One. He turned to the two waiters, Natali and Angeli to say, Aren’t we?"

Yes, we are! both yelled cheerfully. They hugged each other and added, We live together or die together!

They were such a close couple, so close. Anger sparked in Natali’s eyes whenever anyone dared to hit on Angeli with her beautifully shaped body and long and silky black hair.

Were they lovers? wondered the prince. He knew he wasn’t the only one to wonder. Ajeet knew more about them than anyone, and he’d visited their apartment several times. He’d said that he’d never noticed anything unusual, just that there was only one bedroom in their flat—and one bed.

CHAPTER 2

T hat night, Prince Waleed fell instantly into a deep sleep, a sleep that lasted until he screamed madly—terrified of the nightmare that repeated every other night. It was a nightmare that had remained the same since his childhood.

It was of his father crashing to the ground in agony showered by his blood. The funeral was attended only by a few high-ranking officers—no family members because his father was a love child and had been raised in an orphanage. He had no family; no one knew who they were. And Waleed’s mother’s family had refused to attend the funeral. In their unfeeling arrogance, they called his father a devil and had called Waleed the devil’s son since the day he’d been born.

Waleed jumped out of his bed, still hearing the ghost of his father weeping and grumbling how he felt deathly lonely in his grave, begging his son to perform a miracle and bring him back to life.

He shivered. Surely, the gray ghost of my father would materialize in front of me now? He stood still in the middle of the room until slowly he recovered. Then he went back to bed, terrified by his feelings of utter abandonment and loneliness.

I should have invited one of the women at the bar to spend the night with me. I shouldn’t be alone, he thought.

But now he had to fight the hatred within alone. The hatred of any authority trying to dominate the world, of any dogma, religion, or regime, such controlling powers were responsible for his father’s murder.

He tried to think of something else but couldn’t. He was fixed on his hatred of a society which had shown him no sympathy when his father died. On the contrary, it had offered him only disrespect. When he went back to school after the funeral, everything had changed. His fellow students who used to fear him started to call him a fake prince. Even the teachers who used to favor him because of his father’s role as a security agent no longer offered him special treatment. On the contrary, they constantly snapped at him, Behave yourself.

To cut a long story short, everyone seemed happy with his father’s bloody end.

Sweating and trembling in his bed, his memories turned to when his mother had died five years later. He’d been left entirely alone with nothing to stop him from going wild, nothing to stop him from using his fear and distress to challenge any obstacle under the sun.

There was nothing to stop him from taking any risk—no matter how extreme—so he could survive.

He leaned over to his nightstand and grabbed a cigarillo which he smoked as he gazed out of the window at the bright lights of the swimming pool and the hotel’s garden. The breathtaking view helped him to loosen up; it reduced his tension and made his memories more tolerable. Feeling more positive, he thought back to when he’d changed from being an orphan child to a man of power, someone willing to fight without mercy for the sake of wealth.

The prince knocked the ashes from his cigarillo, and his mind turned to that prodigious day when as a teenager he had spontaneously, without a moment’s thought, put on his black coat and walked under a slow gray rain straight to the terrifying headquarters of the General Security Directorate.

***

Once at the main gates, he drew himself up firmly like a brave fighter, looked the receptionist straight in the eye, and said in a commanding tone, I’m Waleed Wahid Adam. Son of the late Wahid Adam. I need to see Colonel Gazi.

The colonel was surprised by the boy’s unexpected visit and more astonished when Waleed dropped the formalities and told him straightforwardly, Colonel, I know you respect my father’s memory. And his long service in your office. Therefore, I request you forgive what I’m going to tell you. He paused briefly. Colonel, I request you … kindly and respectfully … recommend me to work for Abu Al-Abid, the lord of the famed bootlegging group.

Colonel Gazi froze in the act of handing him a bar of chocolate and shrugged.

Waleed added with confidence, I want to leave school and go on an adventure. Our country is a melting pot of corruption. And I want to be part of it. He hesitated when the colonel looked deeply into his eyes but ignored his fears and continued, I want to be rich. I want the same power as anyone whose father serves or used to serve the regime.

The colonel was deathly silent for a long moment. Then he said harshly, Aren’t you worried I’ll arrest you—

With that implied threat, an image of his father rushed into Waleed’s mind and provided him with the power to cut the colonel short. Even if you kill me, that won’t change my mind.

To his surprise, Colonel Ghazi offered him a devilish smile and told him to eat the chocolate and go home.

***

The prince took a deep breath. Then he lazily turned on the table lamp next to his bed and lit another cigarillo. He remembered with horror just after he had left the headquarters of the General Security Directorate; two huge guys had jumped out of a black 4WD car. They’d carried him like he was a sack of potatoes and pushed him violently into a dark car that stank of metal and worse. Its dirty seats were spotted with dried blood.

He’d spent the next seven or eight days shut in a dim room where he’d seen nobody but the guard who brought him food three times a day. That guard never said a single word.

Eventually, a massive man with a scarred face arrived and took him to have a hot shower. Once Waleed had finished, the man guided him to a comfortable-looking office decorated with white and red roses and told him to take a seat on the yellow couch and wait.

He’d waited hours, doing nothing but feeling bored and staring at the crystal bowl on a coffee table next to him which was filled generously with delicate, colorful cookies.

That memory made Prince Waleed burst into laughter.

***

He’d tried to stop himself from touching the cookies but no way. He ate one and it tasted delicious. So he took another and another. And he kept eating them until someone opened the office door and entered.

Feeling his blood running cold, Waleed raised his eyes and was stunned to see in front of him a well-perfumed man dressed in a red suit and pink shirt topped by a tie that featured all the colors of the rainbow. He got to his feet to face the man and froze like a statue as the man reached for him.

Softy, that’s what they call me, the man said in a seductive tone as he patted him gently on the shoulder. People believe I’m a soft man … very soft. So they call me Softy. He paused, And you’re Waleed Wahid Adam, and you’re interested in joining the Abu Al-Abid group, is that right?

Yes. Waleed struggled to keep his voice steady.

Good. Congratulations, Waleed. You’ve been accepted as a junior member.

The man asked him to fill out a form that looked formal and official. It said that Waleed had to commit himself to devote his life to serve the group, maintain confidentiality, and blindly obey any and every instruction given to him by his superior. And it stated clearly and firmly that he should be aware of the punishment (death by hanging) if he violated any of its terms. He happily signed it.

The soft man told him, Well done. You have lovely handwriting … we all here, in love. He paused for a long moment and added sweetly, And according to our tradition, new members should prove their loyalty by performing the holy lovemaking ritual.

Holy ritual?

No one can escape this ritual, Softy said firmly and he touched Waleed’s cheek as if he was going to kiss him.

No way! Waleed cried, feeling disgusted.

His reaction made the soft man laugh. He walked away to throw himself at the yellow couch and pick up a white cookie to smell it before eating it. After chewing the cookie thoroughly, the soft man made everything crystal clear. No, sweetie. You aren’t going to do the love ritual with me. You’re going to do it with a lovely guy—that massive man who took you out of the dim room to come here. He watched you while you had a shower and loved you so much.

***

The prince or Prince Waleed or Waleed Wahid Adam, whatever he named himself or the others called him, almost hated himself when he remembered what had happened. How the soft man wasn’t sweet anymore. How he’d shouted at him, Never forget your commitment to obey blindly! If you don’t obey, you’ll be hanged.

Then he’d forced him to lose his virginity in the most insulting way. It was bad enough that he’d had to have sex with the massive man. But worse, this took place in front of a camera crew and under a burning halogen lamp. Under this white light and intense heat, Waleed had obeyed and demonstrated his submissiveness and loyalty.

***

The prince, who felt annoyed simply at the thought of the words submissiveness and loyalty, continued to stare through the window, puffing away at his cigarillo as he dug with further sorrow into the congested store of his memory.

A wave of nausea clutched his stomach as soon as he recalled the disgust he’d felt when the massive man had touched him. The sudden and unbearable pain when he’d penetrated his body—and more that he couldn’t put into words.

Feeling another severe wave of nausea, he jumped out of bed and rushed to the bathroom to vomit. As he rushed in panic, Waleed slipped and tumbled ono the marble tiles, instantly feeling a sharp pain throughout his body and head.

At first, he thought it was the end. I don’t want to die early like my father! he screamed.

Then he realized he wasn’t that seriously injured although he couldn’t get to his feet. I am a survivor, he told himself, and he crawled slowly and painfully to the phone and called customer services for help.

CHAPTER 3

D ubai Gold Souk had been a trademark of Dubai since the 1940s when traders and entrepreneurs from India and Iran had pitched their stalls there. It later became one of the largest retail gold markets in the world.

Almost ten tons of gold was present at any given time in the well-secured market. So it was more than safe for Noor Ali to carry a million dollars in his briefcase as he walked confidently toward Ajeet Ajay’s jewelry shop.

The aroma of incense and Arabic perfume wrapped around his head when he strolled past a seemingly endless line of shops. Most of the display windows displayed a breathtaking collection of bracelets, necklaces, and rings—featuring diamonds, emeralds, rubies, and sapphires.

Noor Ali was heavily involved in hawala business, which worked by transferring money without moving it physically but through a network of operators called hawaldars or hawala dealers. Many countries, including India, had made hawala business illegal and regarded it as a form of money laundering used across the globe to circulate black money and fund terrorism, drug trafficking, and other illegal activities.

Noor Ali was well connected to the hawala dealers’ network and had just received a note from his Indian counterpart, asking him to deliver a million dollars to Ajeet from his partner in New Delhi. Usually, Noor Ali’s customers went to his office to receive their money. He didn’t deliver the cash up to their doors—he wasn’t a home-delivery man. However, Ajeet was no ordinary client. And he was well trusted in the gold business community. He’d almost reached Ajeet’s shop when he received a call from him. Sorry, I’m too busy to see you today. We can meet another time.

Worried there was something wrong, Noor Ali asked, Are you OK, Ajeet?

Yes, I’m at home eating masala omelet and toast.

How’s your omelet?

Ajeet was silent for a moment and then answered calmly, Harsh and spicy but I’m always ready to deal with something like that.

***

On his way back to his office, Noor Ali had another pressing matter on his mind—his longing for his beloved Sonya, the sexiest woman at the 10 Tola Bar who’d agreed to his proposal that she should be married to him for one week, starting that night.

He wasn’t a religious man. He had a drink almost every night—which was haram—and did many other things against Islam’s rules. But he would feel overcome by guilt if he made love without a marriage contract.

***

When he’d proposed a one-week marriage, Sonya had thought he was kidding. When he insisted, she thought he was drunk. He had to explain patiently that the Shia sect he belonged to allowed for temporary marriage—a pleasure marriage.

Then he had to answer her many questions, ignoring her sarcastic tone.

Will we have a big wedding? Maybe here in the bar? She laughed at the thought.

No need, darling. It’s a private and verbal temporary marriage contract.

And for one week only?

It can be for one hour or less, as long as the bride isn’t a virgin. And I don’t think you are—

Why not a virgin?

"It’s just the way it is.