A freighter laden with stacks of containers sounded its horn and put to sea from the port, putting Zac directly in its path. He tried to turn the little sailboat but the breeze had died. The freighter sounded its horn again, but Zac was dead in the water.
Hemmed in by several small islands, the six-hundred-foot ship closed in on the sailboat. Finally, with its rudder over hard and engine reversed, the ship was able to navigate around the much smaller boat and avert a collision. Zac waved sheepishly before turning around to resume his search for the Burj. Only then did he notice the power boat slowing to a halt a hundred feet off his bow. He didn’t recognize the sleek craft from its white and red exterior, but the flashing blue lights atop the bridge meant the same thing everywhere.
Busted.
The police boat was nearly fifty feet long, with a raked bow and three inboard engines. It hailed Zac over its loudspeaker in a language he didn’t understand. He pointed at his empty sails and turned up his hands in an attempt to convey his predicament. The motor boat coasted past. The four officers aboard appeared relaxed, though one of them had a rifle slung over his shoulder. The police boat circled around behind the sailboat and stopped twenty feet off its side.
“Do you speak English?” Zac shouted.
“You are American?” one of the officers responded with surprise.
“Yes. The wind just died on me. I’m sorry.”
“That ship had right of way, you know.”
“I tried to get out of her way but I couldn’t turn.” Zac again gestured at the slack and unmoving sails. “I’m making my way to the Burj Al Arab.”
The officer said something to the other policemen, and they both looked at Zac.
“Is this your boat?”
“I rented it at the hotel.”
The English-speaking officer conferred with another man aboard. Neither took his eyes off Zac while they spoke.
Over the loudspeaker this time: “We are coming aboard to inspect your vessel.”
The police boat maneuvered deftly alongside and two officers stepped down into the sailboat. The one with the rifle watched from the police boat.
The English-speaking officer asked, “May I see your passport please?”
“It’s back in my hotel room. I was afraid I might lose it out here. I’m an American citizen.”
While Zac was speaking, the other officer searched the boat. He was short and stocky, with a stern expression and eyes that darted about.
“I see. And you are a guest at the Burj Al Arab? You rented this boat from there?”
“Yes. Well, nearby. If you call the American embassy, they can verify my citizenship.”
“The American embassy is down in Abu Dhabi. We have a consulate here in Dubai, but first I think I will call the Burj Al Arab. There is no need to involve the consulate at this point.” The officer pulled out a cell phone but didn’t dial. “What is your name?”
Out of the corner of his eye Zac saw the stocky officer pick something up. It was Zac’s windbreaker.
“Please call the consulate. They’ll straighten this out right away.”
Zac saw the stocky one heft the rolled-up windbreaker in his hand, as if he was wondering what made it so heavy.
The pistol.
“Your name, please?” asked the English-speaking officer again.
“Zachary Miller, but please call the consulate first.”
The stocky officer lifted the windbreaker by its collar.
“Is there a problem? You do not want me to call the Burj?”
The right side of the jacket was sagging. The stocky officer began to unzip the pocket.
“I am an American citizen. Please call the consulate immediately,” Zac shouted.
The officers stopped what they were doing and looked at him. Apparently, they all spoke English.
“Very well. I will call the consulate.”
He began to type into his cell phone when the stocky officer shouted, “Gun!”
The officer with the rifle pointed it squarely at Zac’s chest. Zac slowly raised his hands above his head. His last chance for talking his way out of his predicament had just disappeared. Within minutes he was handcuffed and in a life preserver, riding in the police boat as they towed the sailboat to shore. He was furious with himself for keeping the gun aboard the sailboat.
He stared out the window of the BMW police car as it drove along the coast and past the seaport. Massive gantry cranes moved on rails over colorful stacks of shipping containers, swiftly loading and unloading the ships berthed along the pier. When they arrived at the police station, Zac took solace in the modern brushed steel and glass building. With rows of neatly parked police cars, the polished, professional appearance contrasted starkly with the dusty warehouse in Iran.
He was promptly booked by a desk officer and told the U.S. consulate would be notified, as it would be anytime an American citizen had been arrested. Zac smiled. Before he’d left London, Peter Clements had told him that his name would be on a secret watch list at all U.S. embassies and consulates. CIA would be notified if there was a hit anywhere in the world. Possession of the gun would complicate the situation, but he had committed no violence in the UAE and governments had long histories of handling these sorts of things discreetly among themselves.
A plainclothes officer escorted Zac from the holding cell a few hours later. He was in his mid-forties, with a muscular physique and streaks of gray peppering the edges of his thick black hair and trim beard. A guard let the two men into an interview room and the plainclothes officer motioned with one of his meaty hands for Zac to sit. He looked thoughtfully at Zac as he stroked his beard.
“So, Mr. Miller,” he began in very good English, “I am Colonel Assad of the Dubai police. Please tell me why you are here.”
Zac looked up at the imposing figure.
“I’m an American citizen and I lost my passport. If you let me speak with someone at the U.S. consulate, I can straighten everything out.”
“The desk officer called the U.S. consulate. Apparently it is closed today for the American holiday of Thanksgiving. He also tried the embassy in Abu Dhabi. It too was closed.” He folded his arms across his chest. “Which brings us back to my question, which you did not answer: Why are you here?”
The officer obviously knew why Zac had been arrested, but he was fishing for something else. If Zac told him the whole story, Assad would dismiss it as the ramblings of a madman. But how could Zac explain being in Dubai with no identification, no money, and a gun? He’d assumed that once the consulate was involved he could tell the truth, but that wasn’t going to happen today. He said nothing.
“Perhaps we should work our way backward,” Assad continued, a touch of irritation in his voice. “Why are you in Dubai?”
Zac stared blankly at the floor.
“Let’s keep it factual, then. Where did you get the boat?”
The officer frowned as Zac remained mute.
“I’ll answer all your questions,” he said eventually. “But I’d like someone from the consulate here.”
“Mr. Miller, I hope you are not under the illusion that the laws of the United States apply here. We notify your consulate merely as a courtesy.” His voice remained calm as he spoke. “We are here to protect the interests of the Emirate of Dubai. For your own sake, I suggest you start giving me some answers.”
The truth was out of the question. Zac was an American agent who had killed six soldiers and a civilian inside Iran. He needed to avoid tying himself to Iran at all costs. If the Iranian government became involved, it would have legitimate grounds for extraditing him. He was fighting a sovereign nation, a government that relished conflict with the Western world. Any alibi he might invent would be useless without the support of his own government. He had to contact the U.S. authorities.
Zac looked up, but said nothing.<
br />
Assad went on. “Maybe I should start. The marine officers approached you because you failed to yield to a ship leaving port. Hardly a capital offense.” He shrugged. “Their intent was only to remind you of the rules of the sea. However, upon nearing your vessel, several inconsistencies quickly became apparent.” A contemptuous edge crept into his voice. “You claimed to be staying at the Burj Al Arab, the finest hotel in Dubai. It is quite expensive, yet you are an American dressed like an Arab peasant. Your clothes are tattered and filthy.” Assad raised an eyebrow as he looked at Zac. “The boat you claimed to rent from the hotel was old, dirty, and unlikely to be rented from anywhere in Dubai, much less the Burj.”
There was no disputing what Assad had said.
“Fine. Any police officer in the world would notice these inconsistencies, but then . . .” He scowled as he spoke the next words. “There was Perso-Arabic script on the back of the boat, and you were carrying a gun.”
Zac’s breathing quickened. He’d noticed the writing on the stern of the boat when he’d stolen it, but given his lack of other options he hadn’t given it a second thought. Now it had tied him back to Iran.
“Do you know that pistol is made in Iran? It’s a PC-9, made only for their army officers. It’s quite unique, really.”
Zac could feel his heart pounding.
“We don’t get many Iranian pleasure boaters down here and no one ever takes a small boat like that across the Strait,” Assad said with almost a touch of admiration in his voice.
Zac’s survival instincts were kicking in. The two men were about the same height, but the cop was thicker everywhere, and he probably knew how to handle himself. With his adrenaline pumping Zac could give him a fight, but they’d still be locked inside the interview room.
Assad sensed the change in Zac’s demeanor and rapped on the door. A guard entered immediately.
The police officer looked back over his shoulder before he left. “Let us not make this more difficult than it needs to be.”
* * *
• • •
ASSAD RETURNED A few hours later with a different guard. The new man stepped into the room and roughly handcuffed Zac before leading him into the hallway. The trio passed through an unmarked door and down three flights of stairs before exiting into a long and dimly lit passageway. The concrete walls and floor were dirty, and appeared to predate the main building by several decades. The men walked for a few minutes until the guard stopped and unlocked a door. Assad motioned Zac inside. The room was lit by a single lightbulb inside a wire cage. The pale green paint on the cinder blocks was peeling from years of neglect. The guard removed the handcuffs and shoved Zac against the wall.
“I will be back. Think about your situation, Mr. Miller. Think carefully,” said Assad.
The guard closed the heavy steel door and the locking bolts slid into place. It was utterly silent inside the cell. It had no ventilation, no furniture, and no toilet. The optimism Zac had felt upon entering the Dubai police station was a distant memory. He slumped to the ground and stared at the door, with his back up against the wall.
THIRTY-FOUR
THE HOT AND stagnant air inside the cell drained what little energy Zac had, yet he slept only in fits and starts, curled up on the concrete floor. The single overhead light robbed him of any sense of time. Eventually he relieved himself in a corner of the room, only to be further tormented by the acrid odor.
The cell was nothing like the rest of the Dubai police station. The room was more like a dungeon; isolated, silent, and far removed from the main building. It was a place where things were done off-the-record and out of the public eye. Hour after hour, Zac sat and stared at the light, alone with his destructive thoughts. When the deadbolts finally slid back, he didn’t know whether to be relieved or terrified.
Assad entered the cell in a fresh suit and smelling of strong cologne. A guard closed the door from the outside.
“Good news,” Assad said with a grin. “We have spoken with your consulate and they are going to send someone to meet with you.”
“When?”
“Soon. Perhaps in the next few hours. Diplomats work on their own schedules.”
“Did they say anything else?”
“Only that they would send someone over. We need to get you ready for your meeting.” Assad rapped on the heavy steel door and shouted something to the guard outside.
The bolts slid back and the guard opened the door with one hand resting on his holstered pistol.
“Come, we will prepare you.”
The guard handcuffed Zac and they walked in silence to another room, which was furnished with a heavy wooden table and four sturdy chairs. It had the same pale green cinderblock walls and stale air as the rest of the dungeon. Assad motioned Zac to a chair. The guard left and locked the door behind him.
“We need you to sign a few documents before the representative from your consulate gets here.” Assad laid two sheets of paper on the table in front of Zac. They were full of Arabic script with a place for his signature at the bottom. Assad handed him a cheap ballpoint pen.
“I can’t read this,” Zac said.
“Not to worry. The first page says only that you entered the country illegally. The second page acknowledges that you were in possession of a gun. We left out the origin of the gun and the boat. There is no point in complicating matters by involving the Iranians.”
“I’ll sign these when I’ve had the chance to speak with someone from the consulate.”
“There is nothing to be afraid of. These are mere formalities.”
“Then I’ll wait until the rep from the consulate is here before I sign them.”
“Life here will be easier for you if you cooperate.”
“I’m not going to sign something I don’t fucking understand.”
Assad cleared his throat. “What you don’t seem to understand is that you have no rights here.”
“I have the right not to sign these. All I want is for someone from the U.S. government to be here.”
Assad paced around the room. He spoke softly. “Perhaps I will call the consulate and tell them that the man we picked up turned out not to be American after all. The man we caught trying to enter the country illegally, in a stolen vessel, with a foreign military weapon, was only pretending to be American. It would be one less headache for them, and we have a very cordial relationship with the United States. They wouldn’t give it a second thought.”
Zac stared at the forms.
Assad glared at Zac. “Sign the papers.”
“Not happening.”
Assad shouted to the guard, “Iftah il-baab!” and the door opened a moment later. Assad stormed out of the room.
* * *
• • •
AFTER SEVERAL HOURS the door opened again and a new man entered the room. Tall and nearly emaciated, with an expressionless face and a mat of greasy hair, he pushed a wooden cart into the center of the room. Zac pushed back against his chair.
Assad entered a moment later. “This is Sabir. He does not work for the police department. In fact, right now, I am not working for the police department.” Assad carefully folded his suit coat and placed it on the table, revealing a semi-automatic pistol on his hip.
“So why was an American sneaking out of Iran? I know the two countries have very strained relations, but it is most unusual. Of course, Iran is no great friend to the Emirates either. The Iranian government has what you call an ‘inferiority complex.’ Did I say that right?” He smiled. “They are bullies. However, the Persian people are some of the finest in the world; educated, artistic, philosophical. My wife was from Iran, from Bandar Abbas, in fact.” He smiled again, acknowledging Zac’s connection to the city.
“Many years ago, she took a trip home with our son to visit her parents. On the day they were to return, their flight turned out over the Gulf a
nd began to climb. It was toward the end of the Iran-Iraq War and American warships were in the Gulf, keeping the Strait ‘safe’ for your shipments of oil. One of the American ships fired two missiles at the plane carrying my family, and a minute later my wife and son crashed into the sea, dead. I have seen it in my mind ten thousand times.”
Assad’s tone changed. The emotion left his voice. “The families of those killed gathered for a memorial service in Tehran. In the following days and months, I learned much about what happened over the Strait that day.”
He resumed pacing, looking only at the floor.
“I learned that the American ship, the Vincennes, had the most sophisticated radar system in the world, able to track over one hundred targets at once. I learned that planes attacking ships do not climb slowly as they approach their targets, but descend rapidly, to pick up speed and hide from radar. I also learned that the captain of the ship was given a medal for his actions . . . But the most important thing I learned was from an Iranian army officer whom I met at the memorial. His brother had been the copilot of the flight. This officer learned through his own contacts that the attack was not the mistake of a frightened ship captain, but a calculated act of murder, ordered at the highest levels of your government as a ‘lesson’ to Iran for defending itself from America’s steadfast and trustworthy ally, Iraq.”
Assad stopped in front of Zac and shook his head in disgust.
“You.” He jabbed a thick finger into Zac’s chest. “You Americans supported Saddam Hussein in the war with Iran. And for what? You have invaded Iraq twice since then. What kind of ally does that? An ‘ally’ of convenience, an ‘ally’ whose only concern is its own supply of oil. Nearly a million Muslim boys died from Western weapons in those three wars. They were the future of our culture. They were the bearers of our hope and prosperity, the husbands and fathers of generations to come. They were my son.”
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