Sharaf’s voice caught in his throat as he stepped from the Camry. Before he could summon the energy to vent his outrage it occurred to him how beautiful and vulnerable she was, a mature young woman with a mind of her own, working every day among people her family scarcely knew.
By now she had recovered from her embarrassment and was moving briskly toward the BMW, keys out of her purse. She was hastily putting the abaya on, throwing it atop her shoulders and then shimmying as she walked. It dropped like a silk curtain, and she paused to poke her arms into the sleeves, a striptease in reverse. Sharaf stood by the Camry’s open door, dumbfounded but enraged.
“Young lady!”
“I’ve been through this already with Mom. This outfit is a compromise. What she wanted me to wear was simply ridiculous. I couldn’t have taken myself seriously.”
“It didn’t look like much of a compromise.” His voice rose. “Especially when it wasn’t covered at all!”
“Sorry, Father, but I’m late.” Her face was sullen, unrepentant.
“We’ll discuss it this evening. Be home by ten!”
“I’m always home by ten!”
He was about to admonish her disrespectful tone when his cell phone rang. A glance told him it was the Minister, and by the time he looked up again, Laleh was backing down the drive, zooming past his Camry in a dazzle of style and polish. Music throbbed through the rolled-up windows, radiating with her anger.
So what was he supposed to do now? Chase her halfway up Sheikh Zayed Road with all the other commuters? He leaned wearily on the Camry’s door frame and watched until the BMW was out of sight. In her wake: a silent neighborhood of empty sidewalks and pale brown villas, curtains closed.
The phone rang again.
“Sharaf.”
“The York. You went?”
“Of course.”
“Well, what do you think? Is it a trap, or is it real?”
“Why can’t it be both? The important thing is that it’s an opening.”
Sharaf briefly outlined what he intended to do next.
“No,” the Minister said. “Too risky.”
“Of course it’s risky. You hired me for results. You also told me to use unorthodox methods, keep everything off the books, and look for the first possible opening. This is our opening.”
“How can you be sure?”
“He was killed by the Russians, for one thing.”
“Assad has a suspect?”
“Of course not. And unless he arrests some patsy just to clear the case he never will. But everything fits: the location, two Slavic thugs, and the weapon, a Makarov semiautomatic.”
“There is already a ballistics report?”
“I saw a shell casing.”
“So you’re guessing.”
“An educated guess. Assad won’t let me near the paperwork anytime soon, so that’s the best I can do for now.”
“If you haven’t seen the report, then how do you know about the thugs?”
“The forensics team. They gossip like old women at a wedding.”
“So even that’s secondhand. Not good enough, not with these people.”
“What people? The Russians? Or are you referring to Pfluger Klaxon, the victim’s employer?”
“Merciful God, is that true?”
“He worked in quality control, meaning he was a natural troubleshooter. Or troublemaker; judging from what happened to him.”
“All the more reason to avoid this one, even though that jackal Assad is involved.”
“Pardon me, sir, but, as my daughter likes to say in English, ‘Get real.’ Because if anything out of the ordinary is involved, the mere proximity of a Pfluger Klaxon employee ensures that certain higherups will want to help clean up the mess. It’s the kind of name that always draws the big boys out of the shadows. The very people you’re interested in.”
Your ministerial rivals, he could have added, but didn’t.
For a moment the Minister said nothing. Sharaf imagined him cringing as he considered the various friends and associates he might alienate if things went wrong. Sharaf had seen it before—bosses who talked big about cleaning house, then blanched as the day of reckoning drew near. Fine by him. If the Minister backed out, so would Sharaf. But, somewhat to his surprise, Sharaf found himself hoping for the opposite. Having poked a toe in the water, he was now itching to make the dive. A last plunge for old times’ sake. Or maybe he just relished the challenge.
The Minister sighed.
“Okay, then. But work it from our side only. And for the moment leave the Americans alone.”
“You’re already tying one hand behind my back.”
“Those are my rules. If you’re as good as everyone says, it shouldn’t prevent you from achieving success.”
Another reason Sharaf preferred to be underestimated. It kept expectations lower.
“Don’t expect a miracle,” he said.
And don’t expect me to play by your rules, he thought after hanging up. Because the first thing he needed to do was to come up with some excuse for contacting the second American, rules be damned. Like father, like daughter, he supposed. No wonder Laleh was so defiant. Sharaf restarted the Camry and crept back into the maelstrom.
6
Someone was in Charlie’s room.
You could hear the ruckus next door even through the Shangri-La’s fortified walls—drawers opening, closets slamming, loud voices issuing orders. In English, no less.
Sam sat up in bed, wondering what the hell was happening. He must have finally dropped off to sleep at sunrise, not long after the first call to prayer. Now it was bright enough to be midday.
He had slept poorly. Charlie’s face kept bobbing up in his dreams—laughing in one moment, dead in the next, eyes fixed and vacant, rigid skin gone fish-belly white. As Sam stumbled out of bed he wondered how old Charlie’s kids were, what Charlie’s wife would say, what he would tell her. He supposed he would face them all at the funeral, a convicted man before a firing squad. Deservedly so.
The banging from next door grew louder. Sam shrugged on a T-shirt and pulled up his trousers from a wrinkled pile at the foot of the bed. Then he wandered barefoot into the hallway, where an American in khakis and a navy polo looked up from a clipboard.
“You must be the friend. Sam Keller?”
“Who are you?”
“Hal Liffey, U.S. consular section. I’m sorry for your loss. My condolences.”
Liffey extended a hand, but Sam was more interested in the doings next door, where there had just been a huge thud. Had they upended the mattress? The door was open, and Sam tried to move close enough for a look, but Liffey blocked his way.
“What’s going on in there?”
“Collecting his belongings. Sorry about the noise.”
“Sounds more like a search.”
“Well, they don’t want to miss anything. Standard procedure with an overseas death of a U.S. citizen. We collect the personal effects of the deceased and ship them home with the, uh, the body.”
“Shouldn’t the police be present?”
“They’ve been notified. They’re okay with it. If we find anything relevant, we’ll let them know, of course. We just figured it was in everybody’s best interest to move fast, especially after your office called.”
“Nanette Weaver?”
“She seems very efficient.”
“She’s due in at six. I’m meeting her at the airport.”
Sam checked his wrist for the time, but he had left his watch on the nightstand.
“It’s almost noon,” Liffey offered.
“I should get dressed.” He wondered vaguely why Lieutenant Assad hadn’t already stopped by.
“I’ll need you for a few minutes when we’re done, if you don’t mind. Some forms to sign, that kind of thing.”
“Sure. You haven’t spoken with a Lieutenant Assad this morning, have you?”
“No. I’ll knock for you when we’re done.”
Sam
showered while the thuds continued. A curious business. He wondered if it was really routine. As he dressed he noticed Charlie’s black datebook on the nightstand next to his watch, out in plain view. He considered giving it to Liffey before Assad arrived, but he supposed that might also land him in trouble, or complicate the paperwork. Better to deliver it personally to Nanette. She’d know what to do. In the meantime he would hide it in a drawer, although his auditor’s curiosity demanded that he first glance inside.
There was little to see. Every page was blank except for the one tabbed with the letter “D,” where Charlie had written “Dubai” above a list of three names and phone numbers. The numbers were local. The first name was Rajpal Patel, the second was Tatiana Tereshkova, and the third one was merely Basma, a female Arabic name, but nothing more. None was familiar, and as far as Sam knew none worked for Pfluger Klaxon. There were no addresses, no job titles, and no other identifying information.
Below, in a sloppier hand, was “Monday, 4/14!” underlined twice, along with a two-line mishmash of letters and numbers: “50! IMO9016742, JA T2-G6, L17-R4.”
None of it made sense. Probably a bunch of abbreviations, some personal shorthand that only Charlie could decipher. Sam remembered their conversation at the Alpine bar, and Charlie’s promise of big doings on Monday the 14th. It was now Sunday the 6th. Charlie would never make it to his avowed day of reckoning, and his black book offered few clues as to what might have been in the works. Was this all or part of what Charlie had scribbled with such urgency during his rendezvous at the Palace Hotel?
Sam flipped through the rest of the book. Nothing. Maybe Charlie had been talking big only to toy with him, trying to goad him into reporting something back to Nanette.
A knock at the door made him flinch. He slid the datebook into a drawer.
“It’s Liffey. We’re done out here, so whenever you’re ready.”
Sam opened the door to find Liffey with forms in hand, pen at the ready. Whoever had been helping was gone, and the door to Charlie’s room was shut.
Sam ordered a room service breakfast, then spent most of the next few hours pacing, first in his room and then in the lobby, while nervously wondering if and when Assad would make good on his threatened visit. At 3:30 he tried calming himself with a swim in the hotel pool, but it felt wrong to be among squealing children and luxuriating couples, people without a single care, so he returned to his room.
Shortly after 4:00 his curiosity about matters of consular policy got the best of him, so he fired up his laptop and poked around a State Department Web site long enough to discover that when an American died abroad, it was indeed a consular duty to “take possession of personal effects, such as: convertible assets, jewelry, apparel, and personal documents and papers.” Although this was supposed to occur only “if the deceased has no legal representative in the country where the death occurred.” Presumably Nanette had set the process in motion.
He had another hour to kill before going to the airport, so he sat on the end of the bed watching CNN International. There was nothing about a murdered American businessman in Dubai.
By 6 p.m. he was waiting outside the arrivals gate next to the limo drivers holding signs with their clients’ names. Nanette spotted him right away as she burst through the door from customs, and she nodded in recognition. For someone who had just flown through an entire night from halfway around the world, she was crackling with energy. She rolled an overnight bag with a laptop strapped smartly to the top. Not a wrinkle on her suit, which featured a skirt cut well below the knee. She was dressed for the locals, although her lipstick and makeup were flawless. So was her hair. She might have just hopped out of a cab after a four-block ride through Manhattan. It was mildly unnerving.
To his relief, she smiled in greeting.
“We took the corporate jet,” she said, as if to explain her polished appearance.
“We?”
“My assistant is back there somewhere. Stanley Woodard. He’s along to help pick up the pieces.”
“Am I one of the pieces?”
Sam hadn’t meant to say anything so self-pitying. He realized he was still off balance from jet lag and a lack of sleep.
“I guess that depends on what happened after we talked. How’d it go with the police?”
He gave her a quick rundown, ending with Lieutenant Assad’s threats.
“I doubt the lieutenant will be a problem. I phoned him while we were on the taxiway. Have the consular people been in touch?”
“They came by to clear out Charlie’s room. It was kind of weird.”
“It’s routine. In fact, they’re our first order of business. They’re staying open after hours on our behalf, so we’ll go straight there if it’s all right with you.”
“Sure. I’ll hail a cab.”
“No need. There should be a car waiting.”
As if on cue, Stanley Woodard bustled through the doors with a cell phone tucked to his ear. He was younger than Sam, fresh out of college. He looked like he had slept in his clothes, and he seemed to be in a great hurry.
“Driver’s on the line,” he said. “Car’s out front.”
“Maybe you should follow in a taxi. Sam and I have some delicate business to discuss.”
Woodard looked crestfallen but didn’t protest. He pocketed the phone and nodded gamely at Sam. Nanette didn’t seem inclined to introduce them, so Sam nodded back. He wondered what “delicate business” she was referring to.
The black Mercedes limo, technically a stretch, was far shorter than its huge American counterparts, which made it seem modest by comparison. The interior nonetheless had the feel of a swank private chamber, and when Sam sank deeply into the black leather upholstery he again realized how exhausted he was. Nanette slid toward him from the other door, coming closer than he would have expected on such a roomy seat. With the windows up, her perfume was noticeable. It seemed like ages since their previous meeting back in Gary’s office. He wondered where he would have been right now if he had said no to her plan. Or had that really been an option?
She turned to face him from only a foot away. He noticed a small black dot in her left eye, against the green of her iris.
“So how are you holding up, Sam? It must have been terrible for you.”
“All right, I guess. I keep thinking of Charlie. I go back and forth over everything that happened, wishing I’d done things differently. I’m sorry. I really did drop the ball, like you said. Although I guess it’s Charlie’s family I should apologize to.”
“No, no, Sam. The whole thing is my fault. You’re an auditor, a good one. But you’re not a security operative, and I shouldn’t have expected you to be one. I was only trying to make it a little easier for Charlie. A little less awkward, if that makes sense. Obviously I miscalculated. And, not to speak poorly of the dead, but Charlie didn’t exactly help himself. He made his own bed, Sam.”
“But I—”
“No. Not another word. Stop blaming yourself.”
The car slowed, easing into what appeared to be a horrendous traffic jam. The driver gestured in exasperation toward a cordon of orange cones, where a backhoe was hefting a slab of broken pavement.
“They make new roundabout,” he complained. “For only two days I not come here, and already they make new roundabout.”
Without replying, Nanette reached forward to press a button. A smoked-glass window slid shut between them and the driver. Incredibly rude, but mildly thrilling. They were secluded in boudoir comfort. In Sam’s sleep-deprived mind, aching for solace, almost anything seemed possible.
“I hope you’ll have time for dinner later,” she said.
“Sure. Absolutely.”
He was too tongue-tied to say more.
To Sam’s surprise, the U.S. Consulate was a Dubai anomaly—plain and unremarkable. He had once seen it portrayed in a movie as a palatial spread of marble and glass, with a luxurious courtyard of bubbling fountains and towering palms. Instead, it was a dreary block o
f offices on the twenty-first floor of the Dubai World Trade Centre, which was itself an uninspiring slab of concrete at the east end of Sheikh Zayed Road. The ambassador, the round-the-clock U.S. Marine guards, and the bulk of the diplomatic workforce for the Emirates were all based at the big embassy over in Abu Dhabi.
A green military truck from the Dubai Police was parked outside the building’s ground-floor entrance, with a drowsy sentry at the wheel. Visitors had to pass through metal detectors in the downstairs lobby, and the elevator wouldn’t stop on the twenty-first floor unless you punched in a numeric code, which Nanette seemed to know by heart. Sam watched out of the corner of his eye, unable to prevent himself from registering the sequence. Part of the auditor’s curse, he supposed, forever filing away extraneous data, like a Web crawler that never slept. Stanley Woodard, whose taxi had fallen behind in traffic, barely made it aboard before the doors shut, and seemed none too pleased about it.
Hal Liffey welcomed them as the doors opened upstairs, except now he was dressed in a charcoal suit. To Sam’s surprise, Nanette greeted him like an old pal.
“Hal’s the commercial attaché,” she told Sam.
“We’ve met,” Liffey said, a little embarrassed.
“Is it always the commercial attaché’s job to retrieve the personal effects of the deceased?” Sam asked.
“It is when he’s the only person available. We’re just an outpost here, and are staffed accordingly.”
Liffey led them to a conference room where a gray-haired man and a slender young woman with a severe haircut waited at a long wood-grain table. Narrow windows offered a prime view of another tall building across the way. Its white sides were wrapped partially in a robe of brown marble. Perched atop it was a dimpled sphere that looked like a giant tan golf ball. With a good swing you could have swatted it up Dubai Creek, which shimmered beyond it on a dogleg left.
The gray-haired fellow at the head of the table stood. “Todd Mooney, consul general. I’m sorry for your loss.” He turned toward the woman with the bad haircut. “Maura Steele, my assistant. I take it you’ve met Hal. We’re here to do what we can to make everything go as smoothly as possible. We know this must be a trying time for you.”
Layover in Dubai Page 7
