Free Candleburn by Jack Hayes Page B

less immediately helpful, but even with those ones, there are differences in the tobacco because cigarettes have different tastes depending on the place, to appeal to local sensibilities. A packet of Marlboro Lights in the UK doesn’t taste or smell the same as one from Singapore.”
    Saleem whistled loudly.
    “I don’t envy you trying to figure that one out,” he said.
    “Actually,” Blake replied. “I think I already have. There’s a logo half burned off but still legible on this butt here. It’s a British brand. More importantly, I don’t think I’ve ever seen this one sold locally – so it’s specific to the United Kingdom, Ireland and the like.”
    “Maybe it comes from a British pub here in Dubai?” Qasid suggested. “They might import home brands specially to make people feel welcome.”
    “That’s a good idea,” Blake said.
    “Yeah, in many ways it’s a shame it’s not an American only brand like Kent,” Saleem said.
    “Why?” Blake asked.
    “You’d narrow your search to US military bases or people who’d recently flown in from the country that doesn’t exist,” Saleem replied.
    Blake was puzzled. He looked at Qasid who was leaning against the banisters of the stairs.
    “Country that doesn’t exist?”
    “The one that most definitely isn’t there on the Middle East’s Mediterranean coast?” Qasid added helpfully. “The one none of us in Dubai really has a problem with but for appearances must ignore.”
    “Oh!” Blake said after a few seconds thought. “Israel!”

 
    17
     
    Asp and Zain walked calmly along behind the bearded Russian listening to him try and soothe the naggings of his mistress.
    “You are being cheapskate bastard,” she said. “I don’t want trip to shitty Sharm El Sheikh. You take your wife to Seychelles. I want Bali.”
    “I know you do,” Fedor replied, “but I can’t take the time off work right now. We can go in a month. Things are busy.”
    “You tell Al Calandria that they work you too hard,” she said, fawning as they strolled together towards the palm-edged waters of the marina.
    Asp missed the next piece of the conversation. The forest of towers surrounding the many artificial inlets created a network of wind tunnels, specifically designed to generate both cool breezes and keep the relaxing sound of the water lapping gently against the boats and piers ever present in the air.
    Asp picked up the pace.
    “Excuse me,” he called out.
    Fedor Milanovich turned with a start.
    “Mr Milanovich?”
    “I think you have me confused with someone else,” the Russian replied.
    “No,” Asp said. “I did think so when I saw you walking arm in arm with Carlotta here, rather than your wife, but it’s definitely you Fedor.”
    “You know this fool?” Fedor asked his mistress.
    Horror on Carlotta’s face.
    Quick denials.
    “No, she doesn’t Fedor,” Asp said. “But we know her and we know you.”
    “You won’t be knowing anyone for much longer if you don’t fuck off,” Fedor said, releasing his hand from his mistress.
    “You mean like you dealt with two of my colleagues?” Asp said.
    Recognition.
    “You’re the chucklehead who runs Chrome,” Fedor smiled. “You need to keep your dwindling workforce out of my business.”
    “Thank you for the confirmation,” Asp said. “You heard that, didn’t you Zain?”
    “Sure did,” Zain replied.
    Fedor balled a fist and bounced forward.
    “Hitting a passerby in public in Dubai?” Asp said. “Guess the Russian mob must be getting more and more stupid as time goes by.”
    “It’s the good living,” Zain agreed. “Fat of all those expensive steaks clogs the brain.”
    “Absolutely,” Asp agreed. “Especially since that stupidity has made it so easy to get photos of him with his floozy. I’m sure Mrs Milanovich will enjoy the pictures.”
    “Particularly the ones of what they get up to behind closed doors,” Zain agreed.
    Fedor’s eyes narrowed.
    “What do you want?”
    It was a