Rigged

by Ben Mezrich

“How could you tell?”

  “You mean aside from the guidebooks?” she responded, pointing to the stack of paperbacks on the desk by the fax machine. “Actually, it wasn’t hard to figure out from the look on your face when you boarded the plane. We get it all the time on this flight. The Europeans have already discovered Dubai, but America is just barely opening its eyes. It’s like watching someone discover a Picasso at a yard sale. All of your expectations are thrown right out the window.”

  “Is it really that amazing?” David asked.

  “You’ll see for yourself. There’s a reason many people around the world refer to Dubai as the City of Gold. I promise you this— by the time you go back to New York, your eyes will certainly be opened. Nothing in those guidebooks can prepare you for what you’re about to see.”

  She gave him a little bow, then exited the compartment, sliding the door shut behind her. David lay back on the bed, his arms behind his head. A Picasso at a yard sale. Even the flight attendants were poetic.

  David had a feeling that the woman was right; hell, his eyes were already open pretty wide, and he hadn’t even landed yet.

  Chapter 23

  The minute he slung his carry-on bag over his shoulder, stepped out of the jetway, and walked into the ultramodern airport, David knew it wasn’t just hyperbole: this place was going to blow his mind. Any grogginess left over from the fourteen-hour flight immediately disintegrated as he moved into the bright, high-ceilinged terminal. He wasn’t sure what time it was, but the eye-watering glow from the enormous windows and glass-paneled domed roof made it feel like high noon on the surface of the sun. And the sun, from the looks of things, was immaculate, forged of equally shiny metal, steel, and stone and furnished by space aliens by way of some futuristic interpretation of Ikea.

  And the people, David thought, my God, the people. It seemed like every ethnicity, nation, and sartorial preference was ac counted for: Persian-looking men in tailored suits walked next to women in brightly colored burkas; African men in tribal outfits traded business cards with Asian women wearing Chris tian Dior; a trio of young Arab men, in flowing white robes with colored sashes at the collar, smiled at the Americans and Europeans streaming out of the jetway—

  And then suddenly David realized that one of the three Arabs was holding a cardboard sign with a name written in calligraphy across the front: david russo, new york mercantile exchange.

  David nearly dropped his carry-on bag. He had assumed that someone would be meeting him at the airport, but he had figured it would be by baggage claim—and he had certainly not expected to be greeted by three men in robes who looked like they had stepped right out of a Hollywood movie. He felt an irrational burst of fear as the men spotted him—the one with the card waving, smiling, and pointing—and quickly chided himself for the stupid, unwarranted emotion. He knew, to some extent, that he had been brainwashed over the past year by the TV news; any American since 9/11 who pretended not to have preconceived notions about what young Arab men in robes thought of the U.S. was lying to himself. But there was no reason to think these three particular Arabs had anything but the best intentions. This was Dubai, not Afghanistan. And from everything David had read over the past couple of days, it was just plain racist to confuse the two.

  He hurried over to the three men and held out his hand. “David Russo. Great to meet you.”

  One of the men took his carry-on bag, despite his protests,

  and the other two ushered him forward through the terminal. All three looked to be barely out of their teens. Two spoke with fairly heavy Arabic accents, but the third—who seemed to be in charge—spoke perfect English. He introduced himself as Anwar al Sheman and explained that he was a senior at Dubai University, in the midst of an internship with the Ministry of Finance. He intended to go into business when he graduated, he told David with a grin, because, well, in Dubai there really wasn’t any other choice.

  “It’s all business in Dubai,” he said as he led David out of the terminal and into an even more crowded hall with moving walkways and huge security doors running the length of the far wall. There were a dozen armed security guards at the doors and seven huge lines of Europeans and Americans stretched all the way from one end of the great room to the other; David recognized signs that explained, in English, that this was customs, and he dug into his pocket for his passport—when Anwar patted his shoulder.

  “Not necessary, Mr. Russo. You are an honored guest of the emir.”

  Anwar and the two other men in robes led David around the long lines of Europeans and Americans, straight to the security doors. As they approached, Anwar pulled a plastic card covered in Arabic writing out of his robes and waved it at the nearest security guards. The doors were immediately buzzed open.

  David felt like some sort of rock star as he strolled through the doors with his escort of robed young men. He had to admit, he loved the attention he was getting from the other travelers, who watched in awe as he moved right through customs without even showing his passport.

  After customs, the men led him straight to baggage claim. Again, he was struck by how modern and clean the airport was.

  “We’ve just completed a six-hundred-million-dollar expansion,” Anwar explained. “Last year we had fifteen million visitors. In the next three years, we expect to double that.”

  The two unnamed Arabs in robes retrieved David’s bag, and then his small group was on the move again. Anwar led them down a short escalator to a pair of sliding glass doors. As they stepped through, Anwar grinned at him.

  “You’re very lucky to be here in November. We can actually park in the outdoor driveway rather than in the air-conditioned basement garage. It’s quite a treat here to be able to step outside without bursting into flames.”

  David laughed and followed the young man outside. It was actually quite warm—not unpleasant, maybe ninety degrees, but thankfully not unbearably humid. David had read in one of the guidebooks that in the summer months Dubai reached temperatures of 130 degrees—a number that was almost impossible to comprehend. He was glad to be visiting when he was—as he doubted he’d ever be back. Hell, on his own, he’d have barely been able to afford the cab ride to JFK, let alone the seat on Emirates Air. “Ah, here we go,” Anwar said, pointing toward the curb. “The driver is right on schedule.”

  David’s eyes opened another inch as he took in the silver stretch BMW limousine with tinted black windows that was parked right at the curb. David hadn’t even known that BMW made limousines; the thing was simply beautiful, its silver curves positively glowing in the bright sun.

  “Wow” was all David managed.

  “Yes,” Anwar said, holding the door open for him. “Wow.” David climbed inside, breathing deep the smell of expensive leather. He took a seat by the window, facing forward, and the three robed Arabs climbed in after him. Anwar shut the door behind them, and the car glided away from the curb. Anwar offered him a bottle of water from a miniature fridge, but David declined, his focus captured by the view through the tinted window. In a matter of minutes, the elegant, modern airport had disappeared behind them, and they were now traveling down a freshly paved, four-lane highway that seemed to stretch on forever; on either side he saw desert and sweeping mountains of sand shifting in the breeze, broken only by the errant palm tree. There were other cars on the road, mostly expensive models—Porsches, Lexuses, even the odd Ferrari—but the silver BMW weaved around them with expert ease, like some sort of exotic snake stalking a midday meal. David couldn’t tell for sure, because the ride was so damn smooth, but he had a feeling they were moving fast, maybe more than ninety miles per hour. Still, the speed didn’t bother him; in fact, it felt perfectly natural—the infinite desert that stretched around them on all sides seemed somehow to negate the laws of physics.

  “Have you ever been to the Middle East before?” Anwar asked.

  David shook his head. Anwar grinned.

  “Well, you’ll find that Dubai represents the best of the Middle East t
he same way Manhattan represents the best of the U.S. You can find a little bit of every region here—but the sum is so much more than the parts. And the change that is going on all around—well, you’ll see for yourself. It’s like nowhere else in the world.”

  David began to notice buildings in the distance, sprouting up from the sand like shimmering mirages of glass and steel. He was about to ask Anwar how much farther the city proper was from the airport when suddenly the BMW slithered over a paved sand dune—and an immense skyline exploded into view, so abrupt and impressive that it literally took David’s breath away.

  “Christ,” he whispered. All three Arabs laughed, but David didn’t turn away from the tinted window. It was the most amazing sight he’d ever seen. Like Manhattan, but more modern, sleeker, and so much denser, all the skyscrapers jammed close together as if huddling for safety against the vastness of the desert that surrounded them. What made it even more spectacular was the thought that just twenty years ago he would have been staring at nothing but desert. And the scale of it was just incredible: in the distance he could see the huge hotel, the Burj Al Arab, with the billowing white sail that ran up one side; the two massive glass and steel Emirate Towers, which housed many of the government and corporate offices; the spectacular Gate, surrounded by more giant skyscrapers that the guidebooks hadn’t named—because they didn’t have names yet. Everything was so damn sparkling new—in fact, even newer than new, as most of the place seemed like it was still under construction. In less than a minute, David counted seventeen different humongous skyscrapers being built—at the same time. There were maybe ten times that many cranes—literally hundreds of them, spires playing tricks with the sun, casting crisscrossing shadows that turned the road ahead into a spider’s web of fresh pavement.

  “And it gets bigger as we get closer,” Anwar joked. David was beginning to enjoy his host’s sense of humor. Despite his robes, he did not seem all that different than the kids David had gone to college with. “And I hope you like cranes. We have a lot of them. Eighty percent of the world’s tall cranes, in fact. Most of the rest are in China. But one day we’ll probably have those here too. The emir has many more things he’d like to build.”

  They were rolling right up into the city now, the silver BMW limo dwarfed by the buildings on either side. The driver took a sharp turn—tires screeching, as if he couldn’t be bothered by the brake pedal—and then they were in a circular driveway beneath one of the twin Emirate Towers. David’s eyes widened even more.

  “This is where I’m staying?”

  “We apologize that the Burj Al Arab wasn’t available. There’s a golf exhibition going on at the moment, and the top players have booked most of the hotel. But I’m sure you’ll find the Towers very comfortable.”

  The BMW came to a stop, and Anwar crawled out first, then held the door for David. Once outside, David peered up the facade of the building, marveling at the way the sunlight cascaded across the glass. Anwar handed David’s things off to a bellhop in an immaculate blue uniform, then held out his hand.

  “It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Russo. I will be escorting you to your meeting with the minister of finance later this afternoon. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy your time in the City of Gold. Salaam Alekhem.”

  David shook the young man’s hand. He had read the proper Arabic response in the guidebook, but had already forgotten the words. He figured a smile and a nod would have to do. Then he turned and followed his meager luggage through the goldrimmed, glass revolving doors that led into the lobby of the hotel.

  He hadn’t even fully revolved out the other side when he found himself face to face with a staggeringly pretty woman in a stiff, tailored white suit, holding a small blue envelope.

  “Mr. Russo, welcome. It’s an honor to have you at our hotel.”

  David blinked; it was a lot to take in at once. Not just the beautiful woman, who was looking him right in the eyes, but the lobby, the polished black marble floors, pillars, and walls, the glass picture windows overlooking glowing, brightly colored fountains, the eucalyptus and palm trees sprouting up in various corners of the cavernous middle atrium. In some ways, it reminded David of the lobby of the Bellagio in Las Vegas, which he had walked through once back when he was a college senior. Except this wasn’t a casino—this was a hotel in the Middle East, and the gorgeous woman standing in front of him already knew his name.

  “Thank you,” David gamely responded. “I’m glad to be here.”

  The woman handed him the blue envelope, then gracefully gestured toward a bank of gilded elevators on the other side of the atrium. “You’ll find your magnetic key in the envelope, as well as some information about our hotel and your schedule. I believe you have a meeting at four p. m . with the Ministry of Finance, which is located in our twin tower, a short, air-conditioned walk away. Will you be needing a reminder call from the front desk?”

  “Um, yes, I guess that would be great.”

  The woman nodded, and David nodded back. Then he headed for the elevators. He’d already lost sight of the porters and his luggage—which was probably a good thing, considering he had no idea how much one was supposed to tip in a place that was detailed in marble and gold.

  The elevator seemed even more air-conditioned than the lobby, and by the time David reached his floor he was shivering beneath his clothes. He was looking forward to a quick shower and a brief nap before the meeting. Even on a flat bed, flying halfway around the world was moderately exhausting.

  The hotel’s hallway was as elegant as its lobby: plush carpeting, ornate wooden doors, detailed ceilings, expensive lighting— again, he felt like he was in one of the better resorts in Las Vegas. Sad that he lived in Manhattan, but his only framework for lavishness was Vegas. But then, the New York that equated to this place was far beyond his means and would probably remain that way for many years to come.

  He reached the end of the hallway and found a door beneath a gilded number that corresponded with the number on the blue envelope. Then he opened the envelope’s clasp and pulled out a plastic wand-shaped key. He realized, as he looked from the wand to the door, that there was no actual keyhole—just a small, square, brightly lit plate, right beneath the doorknob. David shrugged and did the only thing that made sense: he waved the wand in front of the plate, and there were a series of clicks from inside. He put his hand on the door and pushed.

  As he stepped inside, he immediately realized that there had been some sort of mistake. The hotel room—if you could call it that—was bigger than his apartment in New York. Thick carpeting, marble walls, a raised kitchen area, two large-screen TVs, a sunken Jacuzzi right beneath the massive picture windows—it was utterly ridiculous. Even more ridiculous, off to the left David saw a glass spiral staircase that led up to a second floor. From his angle, he could barely make out another living room upstairs, as well as a doorway that led to a bedroom.

  David shook his head. This wasn’t right at all. There had definitely been a mistake. If Reston could have seen this room, he’d probably have fired David on the spot. The Merc would never have paid for something like this, and they wouldn’t have expected anyone else to either. And certainly, this had to cost a fortune. David took a small step into the room, then quickly found a cordless phone resting on a chrome pedestal by what appeared to be a fully functioning wet bar.

  The front desk answered on the first ring.

  “Yes, Mr. Russo? How may we help you? Is there a problem with your room?”

  Did everyone in the country know his name already? David cleared his throat.

  “I think there’s been some sort of mistake. I’m probably supposed to be in a much smaller room.”

  The woman on the other end of the line seemed amused. “No, Mr. Russo, we have you in one of our executive suites. You’re an honored guest of the Ministry of Finance, and the upgrade was the least we could do. Your bags are on their way up as we speak. Is there anything else I can get for you?”

  David declined an
offer of champagne and caviar and delicately hung up the phone. He moved a little farther into the incredible two-floor suite. Then he shook his head.

  An honored guest of the Ministry of Finance. Cristal on the airplane. A silver stretch BMW waiting for him at the curb. And a hotel room right out of Donald Trump’s fantasies. David wasn’t sure who these people were or what they wanted—but they sure as hell had gotten his attention.

  Chapter 24

  From the very moment David lowered himself into his seat at the postmodern, black-glass conference table in the huge, brightly lit penthouse office on top of the second Emirates Tower, he realized that he was way out of his element. And it didn’t help that the walls of the room were entirely made of milky-white transparent glass, making it feel like the meeting was taking place on top of a cloud; the view from the top of the world was staggering, but also dizzying and maybe even a little nauseating. Worse yet, the way the rotund minister of finance was peering at him from across the table—his doughy brown face seeming to melt right off the bones, his sausagelike lips bent into a palpable frown—David felt like he had already made some grievous cultural error, and he hadn’t even said anything yet.

  He told himself he was just being stupid; that was probably just the way the man’s face always looked. Certainly, Minister Hakim Al Wazali was, to put it mildly, a generous man; rolls of fat leaked out of the collar of his tailored blue suit, and his fingers, laced together beneath his chin, looked like raw hot dogs that had just been yanked from their packaging. The minister was in his midfifties, and it was obvious from his bearing, and from the way the younger, equally well-dressed man to the minister’s right deferred to him, that the portly man was very powerful.

  “So you are the vice president of strategy for the New York Mercantile Exchange,” the minister said, after the view had been duly appreciated, introductions had been officially made, and everyone had taken their seats. David nodded. His gray suit felt stiff after having made the long journey in his cheap luggage; it had taken him a good hour to figure out the high-tech ironing system in his hotel room, and he had only just finished work on the jacket when Anwar arrived to take him to the meeting. He noticed, with a little jealousy, that both of the men on the other side of the table were wearing much more expensive suits—three buttons each, with vests, and both were in gray as well. Still, he was glad they weren’t wearing robes; that would have made him even more uneasy than he already was.