Free Candleburn by Jack Hayes Page A

is Omani. That means the talents of many cultures went into this little device. It’s ingenious.”
    He returned the scalpel to its place in the wallet and set to work on the freshly revealed lock. A minute later, the lid clacked and rose by a millimetre.
    “I believe the honour is yours,” Qasid said, passing the puzzle box across.
    Blake breathed deeply and lifted the lid.

 
    16
     
    “Are you sure I don’t need to be armed for this?” Zain asked nervously.
    “What do you want, a gun?” Asp replied as they watched the front of Flamenco Towers 7 from a wharf-side bench.
    “Don’t be ridiculous,” Mehr said, snorting derisively. “Jesus, you’d have to be an idiot to try and use a gun in Dubai. No, I meant a cricket bat or something.”
    “Yes officer,” Asp used his comic voice, “I was just out playing a spot of cricket along the docks with my friend and accidentally happened to whack the most powerful Russian in the city repeatedly about the noggin. Mistook him for a croquet ball. It won’t happen again.”
    “Don’t be an arse,” Zain growled.
    “You started it,” Asp replied. “We’re not here to kidnap him. We’re just going fishing to see if we can bring anything to the surface.”
    “He’s killed several of our colleagues and you’re on a fishing expedition?”
    “You have a better idea?” Asp asked.
    Zain slapped his friend on the shoulder.
    “There he is.”
    ***
     
    Blake stared down into the open puzzle box.
    An intact phial of fluorescent yellow liquid was firmly attached to the underside of the lid. The two-centimetre wide walls were lined on the inside with metal, clearly to prevent the device being drilled open without the acid being released.
    It was filled with white basmati rice.
    “Rice?” Blake exclaimed.
    “Check beneath it carefully,” Qasid said. “The rice is probably a desiccant added to protect the integrity, cushion from impact and disguise what’s truly inside.”
    Blake cautiously ran a single finger through the fine grains, bringing to the surface three stubby cylinders that reeked of stale tobacco ash.
    “Three used cigarette butts?” Blake said. “That’s it?”
    “Well,” Qasid chortled, “I promised you that I’d be able to find a way into the box – I didn’t say I’d be able to explain what you’d find.”
    “Indeed, ” Saleem muttered. “What do you think it means?”
    Silence.
    Qasid rose and poured himself a glass of water from the pitcher on the dining room table. Blake shifted his weight into the back of the seat and stared at the brilliant white ceiling for a few seconds.
    “It has to be DNA,” Blake said. “If it were about tobacco or the cigarettes themselves – I don’t know, say a major brand was adulterated with a poison or something – then you’d send the whole cigarette so the tobacco could be analysed. You wouldn’t send three fully smoked, stubbed out butts.”
    “Agreed,” Qasid replied, placing his glass loudly on the table. “So the questions become whose DNA and why does it need testing?”
    “Is there a brand evident?” Saleem asked.
    “I’m not a smoker,” Qasid said. “How would you tell?”
    Blake, with the most tender of touches, examined the butts.
    “Saleem’s right,” Blake said. “Different brands have different patterns on the filters – these ones are orange with yellow flecks and a single gold stripe. Compare that with mine, which are white with green stripes.”
    Blake pulled from his own pocket his packet of mentholated cigarettes and lifted one out to show Qasid. His Arabic friend took the thin stick of tobacco and rolled it around between his fingers.
    “How does that help?” he asked as he compared Blake’s filter with the ones in the box.
    “Some brands are sold only in certain regions – so it’ll tell me if the pack comes from the UK or the US or if they’re local,” Blake said. “Others are multinational – like Marlboro, which you can buy anywhere. Now, that’s