The office was a Portakabin out at Port Rashid, and the proprietor and chief pilot turned out to be a former British Army Air Corps flier trying to make a living. They do not come much more informal than that.

"Alfred Barnes, attorney-at-law," said Dexter, extending his hand. "I have a problem, a tight schedule, and a large budget."

The British ex-captain raised a polite eyebrow. Dexter pushed the photo across the cigarette-scorched desk.

"My client is, or rather was, a very wealthy man."

"He lost it?" asked the pilot.

"In a way. He died. My law firm is the chief executor. And this man is the chief beneficiary. Only he doesn't know it, and we cannot find him."

"I'm a charter pilot, not Missing Persons. Anyway, I've never seen him."

"No reason why you should. It's the background to the picture. Look carefully. An airport or airfield, right? The last I heard he was working in civil aviation here in the UAE. If I could identify that airport, I could probably find him. What do you think?"

The charter pilot studied the background.

"Airports here have three sections; military, airlines, and private flyers. That wing belongs to an executive jet. There are scores, maybe hundreds of them, in the Gulf. Most have company livery, and most are owned by wealthy Arabs. What do you want to do?"

What Dexter wanted to buy was the charter captain's access to the flying side to all these airports. It came at a price and took two days. The cover was that he had to pick up a client. After sixty minutes inside the executive jet compound, when the fictional client failed to show up, the captain told the tower he was breaking off the charter and leaving the circuit.

The airports at Abu Dhabi, Dubai, and Sharjah were huge, and even the private aviation sector of each was far bigger than the background in the photograph.

The emirates of Ajman and Umm al Qaywayn had no airport at all, being cheek by jowl with Sharjah airport. That left the desert town of Al Am, Al Fujayrah out on the far side of the peninsula facing the Gulf of Oman, and, right up in the north, the least known of them all, Ra's al Khaymah.

They found it on the morning of the second day. The Bell Jetranger swerved in across the desert to land at what the British called Al K, and there were the hangars with the flag fluttering behind them.

Dexter had taken the charter for two full days and brought his suitcase with him. He settled up with a fistful of hundred-dollar bills, stepped down, and watched the Bell lift away. Looking around, he realised he was standing almost where Srechko Petrovic must have been when he snapped the photo that sealed his fate. An official stepped from an administration building and beckoned him to clear the area.

The arrival and departure building for both airline and private jet passengers was neat, clean, and small, with the accent on small. Named after the Emiral family, Al Qassimi International Airport had clearly never disturbed those airlines, whose names are famous worldwide.

On the tarmac in front of the terminal building were Russian-built Antonovs and Tupolevs. There was an old Yakovlev single-prop biplane. One airliner bore the livery and logo of Tajikistan Airlines. Dexter went up one floor to the roof cafŽ and ordered a coffee.

The same floor contained the administration offices, including the supremely optimistic Public Relations Department. The sole inhabitant was a nervous young lady robed from head to toe in a black chador, with only her hands and pale oval face visible. She spoke halting English.

Alfred Barnes had now become a development officer for tourism projects with a major U. S. company and wished to enquire about the facilities Ra's al Khaymah could offer to the executives seeking an exotic conference centre; especially, he needed to know if they could be offered airport facilities for the executive jets in which they would arrive.

The lady was polite but adamant. All enquiries regarding tourism should be addressed to the Department of Tourism in the Commercial Centre, right next to Old Town.

A taxi brought him there. It was a small cube of a building on a development site, about five hundred yards from the Hilton and right on the edge of the brandnew, deepwater harbour. It did not appear to be under siege from those seeking to develop tourism.

Mr. Hussein al Khoury would have regarded himself, if asked, as a good man. That did not make him a contented man. To justify the first, he would have said that he only had one wife but treated her well. He tried to raise his four children as a good father should. He attended mosque every Friday and gave alms to charity according to his ability and according to Scripture.

He should have progressed far in life, *Insh'Allah*. But it seemed Allah did not smile upon him. He remained stuck in the middle ranks of the Tourism Ministry; specifically, he remained stuck in a small brick cube on a development site next to the deep-water harbour, where no one ever called. Then one day the smiling American walked in.

He was delighted. An enquiry at last, and the chance to practice the English over which he had spent so many hundreds of hours. After several minutes of courteous pleasantries-how charming of the American to realise that Arabs do not like to delve straight into business-they agreed that as the air-conditioning had broken down and the outside temperature was nudging 100 degrees, they might use the American's taxi to adjourn to the coffee lounge of the Hilton.

Settled in the pleasant cool of the Hilton bar, Mr. al Khoury was intrigued that the American seemed in no hurry to proceed to his business. Eventually the Arab asked, "Now, how can I help you?"

"You know, my friend," said the American with seriousness, "my whole life's philosophy is that we are put upon this earth by our mighty and merciful Creator to help one another. And I believe that it is I who am here to help you."

Almost absentmindedly the American began to fumble in his jacket pockets for something. Out came his passport, several folded letters of introduction, and a block of one-hundred-dollar bills that took Mr. al Khoury's breath away.

"Let us see if we cannot help each other."

The civil servant stared at the dollars. "If there is anything I can doÉ" he murmured.

"I should be very honest with you, Mr. al Khoury. My real job in life is as a debt collector. Not a very glamorous job, but necessary. When we buy things, we should pay for them. Not so?"

"Assuredly."

"There is a man who flies into your airport now and again in his own executive jet. This man."

Mr. al Khoury stared at the photo for a few seconds, then shook his head. His gaze returned to the block of dollars. Four thousand? Five? To put Faisal through universityÉ "Alas, this man did not pay for his plane. In a sense, therefore, he stole it. He paid the deposit, then flew away and was never seen again. Probably changed the registration number. Now, these are expensive things. Twenty million dollars each. So the true owners would be grateful, in a very practical way, to anyone who could help them find their aircraft."

"But if he is here now, arrest him. Impound the aircraft. We have lawsÉ"

"Alas, he has gone again. But every time he lands here, there is a record. Stored in the files at Al Qassimi Airport. Now, a man of your authority could see those archives."

The civil servant dabbed his lips with a clean handkerchief.

"When was it here, this plane?"

"Last December."

Before leaving Block 23, Dexter had learned from Mrs. Petrovic that her son had been away from December 13th to the 20th. Calculating that Srechko had snapped his photograph, been seen, knew he had been seen, and had left immediately for home, he would have been in Ras al Khaymah about the 18th. How he had known to come here, Dexter had no idea. He must have been a good, or very lucky, reporter. Kobac should have taken him on.