Dawn was arriving as the unit hit the outskirts of Doha, but the lights of the high-rise buildings were still burning, illuminating the sky with a neon fluorescence. As their guy drove along a broad, beach-side highway, streaks of salmon pink crept across the sky from the horizon. The sea itself was dotted with yachts, many of the size that only the oil-rich could afford. Even at this early hour, commercial helicopters were coming in to land on the top of brightly lit skyscrapers – an airborne reminder that this was a place where the super-wealthy came to work and to play. ‘Your drop-off location is in the West Bay district,’ Morgan told them. ‘Poshest part of the whole fucking Gulf. Your guy must be quite the playboy.’ Danny nodded as their guy looked in the rear-view mirror. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, love,’ he said to Caitlin, ‘but when girls looking like you rock up at the offices or apartments of men like him, they’re normally charging by the hour – and making a fair whack out of the deal too.’ ‘Thanks for the heads-up,’ Caitlin said, her voice frosty.
