THIRTY-SIX
ZAC’S PEASANT GARB had helped him hide inside Iran, but in cosmopolitan Dubai, it had the opposite effect. The camouflage had to match its surroundings. He put on Assad’s gray sharkskin suit. The jacket and pants were loose, but not awkwardly so, and with Assad’s gold bracelet and sunglasses, Zac looked like just another Middle Eastern businessman. He took the rest of Assad’s personal effects as well, including his weapon, wallet, and police credentials. The two men didn’t look much alike, but Zac hoped no one would scrutinize the photo.
Rogers was sitting in a corner, shaking. Zac walked over and squatted down. “You did great,” he whispered. “We’d probably be dead if it weren’t for you.”
Tears ran down her cheeks.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“I’m sure he told you horrible things about me,” Zac said, gesturing toward Assad, “but you have to trust me. I’m one of the good guys.” Zac lowered his voice. “We’re going to get out of here and make our way to the U.S. consulate, or maybe the embassy down in Abu Dhabi. They can protect us there.”
Zac helped her up and steadied her as she regained her composure. After a minute she picked up her phony State Department credentials and headed for the door.
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” she said.
“You’re going to leave us here to die?” Assad challenged.
Zac turned and drew the pistol, shifting his aim between Assad and the guard.
“You have two choices. You can take your chances that someone finds you down here, or I can kill you now and take the guesswork out of it.”
“I’ll take the first one,” said the guard. “The wait-and-see choice.”
Assad shot a look of disgust at his coworker.
Emma turned back to Assad and the guard. “I’m finished with listening to these two,” she said. The Emiratis stiffened in their chairs as she walked over to them, but all she did was gag each man with a sock tied around his head.
Zac led Rogers into the hall and locked the door behind them. He figured his stay in the dungeon probably wasn’t sanctioned by the Dubai police, so there had to be an exit that bypassed the police station. Along the hallway were several identical doors and one without a lock. He opened it slowly and peered through the crack. It was a stairway, poorly lit and lightly used, judging by the layer of dust on everything. They walked up two flights, Zac’s right hand resting on the holstered pistol. On the landing was a sturdy door, locked with a deadbolt. The next flight of stairs led to the top floor. If they couldn’t get out there, they’d have to go back into the dungeon and make their way out through the police station.
The exit door on the top floor was secured by a powerful magnetic lock. An electronic access panel and a glowing red LED told them they weren’t getting out that way. Zac turned to walk back down the steps, but Rogers tugged at his arm.
“Try his wallet. He used it to get down here.”
Zac pressed Assad’s wallet against the panel and the LED turned green. Zac nodded at Rogers and opened the door. It was another empty stairwell, but this one was clean and well lit. They moved silently up the steps and found a door with a push bar and no lock. Zac opened the door half an inch, his hand now wrapped firmly around the grip of the holstered pistol.
Cool air rushed in as he looked into the lobby of a modern Emirati office building. There was a man in uniform behind a desk, but he looked more like a receptionist than a police officer. Another man in an elegant white dishdasha was exiting the building, but otherwise it was deserted.
Zac looked at Emma and she nodded. She was ready. He adjusted his sunglasses, buttoned his suit coat, and stepped into the lobby. The two of them spoke casually in hushed tones as they walked through the glass entryway and out onto the darkened street. Zac was pleased that their bluff had worked but it wouldn’t do to linger. Rogers’s good looks and Western dress would draw stares from every man they encountered and Zac’s disguise was razor thin: a suit and a pair of sunglasses.
He looked to his left. The police station was five hundred feet away.
“We need to get out of here.”
Rogers motioned to a brightly lit hotel a few blocks down the road and the two set off on foot.
Assad’s mobile phone vibrated in Zac’s pocket. He glanced at it. It was an international number. It was the country code for Iran, and Zac would bet his life’s savings that it was Arzaman wondering what had become of his prize.
“Can we go to the consulate?” Rogers asked as they walked.
Zac glanced at the phone again. “It’s almost eleven p.m. It’ll be closed for the night.”
They walked in silence for a few minutes. Rogers hesitated as they approached the hotel. “We’re still too close to the police station. We could go to my hotel.”
“They’ll check there too.” Zac rummaged through Assad’s wallet. “There’s a decent wad of cash and a few credit cards in here. We need to get off the streets and I need to make a phone call.”
“Can’t you use the cell phone?”
“It’s locked.”
The phone started to vibrate again and Zac looked at Emma.
“Ask the doorman to call us a cab to the Burj Al Arab.”
“I don’t think we should go somewhere so obvious,” she said.
“Just ask him.”
Emma spoke with the doorman, who dutifully walked out to the curb to summon a taxi. Zac circled around behind the valet stand and planted Assad’s cell phone in an unlocked suitcase. He rejoined Emma out of earshot from the doorman.
“That’ll keep anyone trying to track Assad’s phone off our tail.”
The two Americans walked to the approaching taxi and climbed in.
Zac spoke to the cabbie as it pulled away from the curb. “Forget the Burj. Take us somewhere out of the way.”
The Pakistani driver regarded his passengers in the rearview mirror. “I know just the spot,” he said with a salacious grin.
Zac looked over at Rogers as the car wound its way through the city streets. She was staring out the window, crying softly.
THIRTY-SEVEN
INSIDE THE TAXI, Zac reached for Emma’s hand to comfort her, then stopped. She was scared. Scared of the trouble she was in, scared of the unknown, and probably scared of him. And, Zac reflected, neither of them knew even a single important detail about the other. They rode on in silence, two involuntary partners in crime.
The driver took them to a part of Dubai that Zac had never seen before. The poorly maintained low-rise buildings and the throngs of pedestrians on the streets contrasted starkly with the hyper-affluence and the auto-centric culture of the rest of the city. There wasn’t a Westerner in sight.
The taxi stopped in front of a run-down motel and Rogers wiped her eyes before getting out. Zac waited for the taxi to leave and the two of them walked to the next block, choosing another hotel in case the cabbie spoke with the police. Zac checked in, giving the clerk a fictitious name and address in France. Since the charging of interest was forbidden by Sharia law, many Muslims did not own credit cards and the clerk accepted a token amount of cash for the room deposit. After buying a few items from behind the counter, Zac and Rogers stepped into the elevator.
The small room was clean and furnished with a double bed, a dresser, and a single chair. Beige paint covered the walls. There was a television but no telephone. Zac turned back the heavy window curtain to see if they’d been followed. He spoke rapidly as he scrutinized the street for signs of unusual activity. “I need to go out and find a phone; a cheap prepaid one or a pay phone, some way to contact my boss back in London.”
He turned from the window and saw Rogers sitting on the bed, fighting back tears.
“What did they tell you about me?” Zac asked.
She put her face in her hands and started sobbing.
Zac continued, �
�You probably think that I’m some sort of monster, that I’ve done terrible things to innocent people, but it’s not true. I promise that I won’t hurt you. We’re in this together now.”
She looked up and met his gaze. “That’s supposed to make me feel better? We’re in what together? What the hell have I gotten myself into?”
Zac regarded the woman who had shown such courage in the police station. She’d disarmed a man almost twice her size and saved Zac’s life. She was angry and scared, and she had a right to know the truth. Well, most of it anyway. He surveyed the street again before speaking.
“I work in London. Two weeks ago I was headed to Singapore on a business trip. We were halfway there when the plane had to make an emergency landing in Iran. I took some pictures of the area outside the airport and a group of soldiers separated me from the other passengers. They asked me a lot of questions, but didn’t listen to anything I said. They drugged me and moved me to a warehouse in the mountains where an army colonel tortured me for days. I would’ve been executed if I hadn’t escaped.”
Rogers had stopped crying. She looked up at Zac as if searching for something solid in the world that was crumbling around her.
“The police said . . . they said you did some bad things over there. They wanted you to confide in me so I could find out the details.”
“I did what I had to do to get away from some very dangerous people. I made my way to the coast and stole a boat, which is how I came to Dubai. The marine police stopped me and one thing led to another.”
“How did they know what happened in Iran?”
“I guess they gave the case to Assad when they figured out that I had come from Iran. He has contacts there, including the Iranian colonel I mentioned. They both lost family when the U.S. Navy shot down an Iranian passenger jet back in 1988. But they’re after me for more than just the pictures I took. This is a vendetta, revenge for an accident that happened decades ago. They were going to push me until I told them what they wanted to hear, or I was dead.”
“Are you some kind of secret agent?”
A rueful smile crossed Zac’s mouth. “Far from it, apparently. I stare at computer screens all day.”
Emma exhaled deeply before speaking. “Obviously, I don’t work at the consulate, but that policeman threatened to kill me if I didn’t cooperate. I work in private banking in New York. I was early for a client dinner so I stopped in the hotel bar. After about twenty minutes I stepped outside to use my cell phone and one of the locals followed me out. I didn’t think much of it until he pushed me into an alcove. I drove my heel into his foot and ran back into the bar before he could do anything. The bastard had the nerve to walk—well, limp—back to his table and rejoin his friends, so I called the police.” Emma shook her head in disbelief. “And then they arrested me, for ‘zina.’ I think it’s like making a false report. They said I needed four male witnesses to prove that the creep tried to assault me. On top of that they said I was being ‘morally corrupt and subversive.’”
“Maybe your attacker was somebody important. They usually give tourists a pass on minor Sharia violations.”
“They were blaming me for being attacked.” Anger replaced her disbelief. “They took me to that police station and locked me in a cell by myself. They told me the American consulate was closed for the night and I’d have to wait until the morning to contact them.”
“Couldn’t you call your client or your office in New York?”
“I know this sounds stupid but I was too embarrassed. My client is a good man. He’d probably help me, and I’m sure he’s wondering why I didn’t show up for dinner, but I was afraid that it would get back to my colleagues and I’d be fired. I figured I’d just wait until morning and call the consulate myself. I didn’t think what I did was really a crime. I thought they were just going to give me a hard time and let me go.”
“But they didn’t.”
“Assad came into my cell about an hour before I met you. He told me they would release me if I helped them with an investigation. When he told me I had to impersonate someone from the consulate, I refused.”
“And?”
“And he threatened me. He told me women don’t have the right to refuse anything in Dubai.” Emma rubbed her face with both of her hands as tears welled in her eyes. “I agreed to do the impersonation. I know I shouldn’t have, but I was scared. He brought me this dress, had me redo my makeup, and spent twenty minutes writing a list of questions they wanted me to ask you. He even used my mug shot photo for this.” She threw her phony Department of State credentials on the bed. “I think he just used a color printer and laminated it. I’m sure that’s why he wouldn’t let you touch it.” She wiped the tears from her cheeks. “While we walked downstairs he spent another ten minutes telling me the horrible things that he would do to me if I blew the impersonation. Five hours ago I was getting ready for dinner with a client whom I’ve known and liked for almost two years and now I’m here. I swear I hate this country.”
“It’s not the country. He’s a corrupt cop, and I don’t blame you one bit for going along. But Assad was right about one thing; this is much bigger than you or me.”
“I really don’t care. I just want to get out of here and never come back.”
Zac understood. He’d felt the same way the night he’d pushed off from the dock in Bandar Abbas. Emma sat in silence while he peeled back the curtains once more. The streets were deserted.
“I need to go out and make a phone call.”
“Can’t you use the phone in the lobby?”
“Definitely not. There are probably five other places in the hotel where someone could listen in on that line. I might as well call the police directly.”
“Who are you calling? It’s three in the morning in London. Zac, please don’t go.”
“I promise I’ll be back in twenty minutes.” He moved toward the door.
Emma grabbed his jacket and pulled him back.
“Zac! Please, I’m begging you. Don’t go. Please, I can’t be alone right now. Stay with me.”
Emma looked terrified, but it wasn’t her pleading that caused him to stay. Zac didn’t have Clements’s mobile number. He knew the main number for CIA/London, but like all field ops, SNAPSHOT technically belonged to Ted Graves, and the watch officer would route the call to him. Zac’s intuition told him to wait a few hours until Clements was in the office and speak with him first.
“The call can wait until the morning.”
Emma let out a nervous laugh. “You must think I’m such a disaster. I swear I’m not normally like this.”
Zac dragged the hardwood chair to the far corner of the room. From it he’d have a clean line of fire at anyone coming through the doorway. “Don’t worry about it. You did great today.”
Emma sighed and stepped into the bathroom.
Zac turned on the television. BBC World News was on. Current events hadn’t changed much since he’d left London. Tensions were high in the Middle East as the United States and Iran continued to debate the scope of its nuclear program. The Iranians were threatening to close the Strait of Hormuz to shipping traffic if the U.S. didn’t make further concessions. The local spin was that the seaport at Jebel Ali in Dubai was the largest one in the region and the UAE stood to lose hundreds of millions of dollars in trade revenues if Iran managed to close the Strait. Zac’s eyes glazed over and he shut off the TV.
Emma stepped out of the bathroom wearing a robe and shrouded in a cloud of steam. “Zac.” She hesitated. “What are we going to do tomorrow?”
“I’ll know after I make my phone call. You should get some sleep now. It’s going to be a big day.”
He turned away and opened the curtain to check the street again.
Emma slid into bed.
“Good night, Zac.”
He nodded to her and sat in the chair. When she’d fallen asleep he
drew his pistol and rested it on his lap. Despite his exhaustion, sleep would not come. He could only stare at the door and think about Arzaman. The Iranian was close. Zac could feel it.
* * *
• • •
WHEN MORNING FINALLY came Zac rose stiffly from the chair and peeled back the edge of the thick curtain. The streets were still dark and deserted. He assumed that Arzaman had been looking for Assad and eventually found him locked in the basement cell. Every police car in town probably had Zac and Emma’s pictures in it.
He closed the curtain and stepped into the bathroom. He used the razor and the scissors he’d bought in the lobby to trim his beard. He stared in the mirror as he worked, fascinated by his dark skin, chiseled body, and shaggy hair; but mostly by his eyes. Something about them was different. There was a look, a predatory alertness, that hadn’t been there before. He’d noticed a change inside as well, and a small part of him relished it. He liked the constant flow of adrenaline pumping through his veins.
Zac showered and once again put on Assad’s sharkskin suit. When he emerged from the bathroom Emma was already dressed and brushing her hair. He debated what to do with the pistol. It would be incriminating if he were caught with it, damning evidence that would likely cost him his life. But going back to Iran, or to the depths of the Dubai police station, would mean months if not years of pain and torture. They would ask the same questions, he would give the same answers, and so it would go until he was all used up. Zac slid the weapon into the holster.
“I need to buy a prepaid cell phone,” he said.
“Zac, why can’t we just call someone local to help us? I could call the client I came to visit. He thinks of me as a daughter. I’m sure he would come.”
“Too risky. My boss is very plugged in. He can work the situation from London and get someone to pick us up.”
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