Layover in Dubai

by Dan Fesperman

  “Really?”

  “Oh, yes. It’s why I always advise male and female associates traveling together in this part of the world to stay on different floors, sometimes even in different hotels. And by all means never, ever look too cozy at the breakfast table. Or don’t you ever read those little memos I send out?”

  “Sure. Sometimes.”

  She smiled at his obvious discomfort. Then she removed her hand from his knee.

  “It’s all right. I know you’re probably too busy. But the police do make a fuss about it here. That and drugs. One poor fellow was locked up for months when they found a poppy seed in the sole of his shoe.”

  “Wow.”

  “You’ve seen them in action. Do you trust them?”

  He thought of Assad’s threats, and the rudeness of the other one, Sharaf, plus the vibe that something hadn’t been quite right between them.

  “No. I don’t.”

  “Nor do I. So we’ll try to keep you insulated.”

  “But I want to help.”

  “Do that through me, then. It’s my job. Not always the easiest job, I’ll confess. Nor do I always get the support I need from our boardroom. Another issue entirely, but it’s why I can sympathize so easily with your feeling of helplessness. And this time you really do need to just let go. I don’t want you to be too easily available for any mischief the police might try. Sometimes they’ll file charges just to extort a bribe, knowing we’ll pay. And the possibility that Charlie was up to his eyeballs in this mess certainly wouldn’t strengthen our hand if something like that happened. So until you’re safely aboard a flight home, lay low. And if all else fails there’s always Hal Liffey at the consulate. They’d offer sanctuary, I’m sure, as long as I vouched for you.”

  “Thanks.”

  Her words, although intended to reassure, were a little unsettling. He also wondered vaguely what had become of the intimacy of a few moments ago. She seemed to have edged even farther away.

  “Sam?”

  “Yes?”

  “You look exhausted. I should let you go.”

  It was an exit line, and fortunately he wasn’t too addled to take the hint. How had he ever let himself believe that she was making a move on him? He supposed he had misread her completely, although as he rode the elevator back to his floor her signals still puzzled him. If he hadn’t been so wiped out they might have kept him awake for quite a while. As it was, he slipped almost immediately into a deep and healing sleep, not stirring until well after sunrise, when he was awakened by an insistent knocking.

  He threw on a hotel robe and opened the door.

  Two policemen in khaki stood in the hallway. Neither was Lieutenant Assad. Perhaps there was news of an arrest.

  “Are you Mr. Sam Keller?”

  “Yes.”

  “You are pleased to get dressed and accompany to us.”

  “I’m what?”

  “You are being in our custody with us, Mr. Keller. You are under our arrest.”

  “Arrest? On what charge?”

  “You are pleased to get dressed, sir, and accompany to us. Now, sir, let us go. Unless we are forced to take evasive action.”

  The second cop, smaller and wirier, had apparently had enough of this ridiculous exchange. He gripped Sam’s forearm with surprising strength and pulled him out the door.

  “Arrest!” he shouted, thrusting his face within inches of Sam’s. “You come! Arrest!”

  “But I haven’t done anything!” he said, pulling for all he was worth. Everything Nanette had said about the police came charging back, dark and frightening. It was a frame-up, and he was the victim.

  “Let go!” he shouted.

  The shorter cop struck him sharply across the jaw, a blow that tumbled him to the floor. Then the first cop handcuffed him and hauled him to his feet.

  “You are pleased, sir, to get dressed and accompany to us!” he said again. “You are under our arrest.”

  7

  Sharaf was just settling into the comfortable squalor of his desk after a late lunch when he heard the voice of the American, shouting in the next room. He was certain it was Keller, the fellow from the York. But why would a foreign businessman be out with the rabble in the main booking area?

  Curious, Sharaf got up to look through the open doorway of his office. Sure enough, Keller was seated opposite Sergeant Habash, who was typing out a charging document.

  As usual, the room was in chaos, the atmosphere of a bus station at rush hour. Its floor space, roughly that of a trailer home, was bisected lengthwise by a cordon of six desks, with the public on one side and the police on the other. Most of the public was confined to a few rows of chairs in a small waiting area, where everyone looked bored or impatient. Hanging from the ceiling above each desk was a numbered sign, but the numbers were out of sequence, proceeding 1-2-3-4-6-5. No one had ever explained why.

  This was where you came to be charged, or fingerprinted, or to swear out a warrant, claim an impounded vehicle, ask for a file, or even request a good-conduct certificate, an indispensable document for any domestic employee seeking to return to his home country. And that was just for the men. Behind a privacy curtain down at the far end was an area where the needs of women were handled by officials of their own gender.

  The low-slung building had once been the headquarters for the Criminal Investigations Division, but a few years ago most of the detectives had moved upward and onward to a new two-story building, where bigger and quieter offices were well removed from the prying eyes of the public.

  Sharaf had chosen to stay behind, a move his colleagues viewed as akin to a soldier turning down a home leave in favor of more shelling at the front. To more ambitious types, such as Lieutenant Assad, it was yet another sign of Sharaf’s lack of initiative.

  But he had his reasons. For one thing, it was part of his disguise as someone of little consequence. It also kept him attuned to the rough-and-tumble of the criminal marketplace. The bookings, the complaints, even the stupid arguments over who was next in line—all of it gave him a better feel for the mood of the street in this fast-changing city. His colleagues were welcome to their peace and quiet. Bedlam was its own reward.

  And here was a fresh case in point. Up in CID headquarters he never would have overheard the American, Keller, loudly protesting his arrest. Curious, indeed, to find him here. Fortunate, too, since Sharaf had just been trying to come up with an excuse for getting in touch, in spite of the Minister’s orders to lay off.

  Keller appeared to be in a bad way. He was unshaven, hair uncombed, and there was a bruise on his lower jaw. No tie, just a wrinkled suit jacket slung over his shoulder, belted khaki slacks with no crease, and a powder blue oxford-cloth shirt, sleeves rolled. His face had the frantic look of someone who had just fallen into a deep hole in unfamiliar surroundings, far from home and bereft of allies—a blend of panic, incredulity, and impotent rage. The perfect setup, in other words, for the move Sharaf was about to make, provided Keller hadn’t gone and done something unforgivable.

  Fortunately, the only impediment for the moment was Sergeant Habash, a classic Palestinian striver who was always looking for any way possible to get himself promoted out of this noisy little chamber where his bosses could literally peek over his shoulder.

  “Habash!”

  The sergeant stopped typing with a flinch, as if expecting a rebuke. He looked back at Sharaf with the wary eyes of a puppy that has been swatted once too often.

  Habash was always volunteering for any chore that might win him extra credit, even when he was woefully unqualified. Recently he had begun writing the English versions of the “Case of the Week” summaries for the department’s Web site. Habash’s English was practically nonexistent, and Sharaf suspected the fellow was relying on some sort of clunky translation software, a suspicion that seemed confirmed when he came across a recent posting touting the department’s arrest of a Bangladeshi burglar:

  All his illegal motives just towards the easy and
shortly gain, ignoring the theorem of being either his legitimate or illicit rights. But no longer, he had fallen under Criminal Investigation grasps.

  Habash’s ambition made him susceptible to the least bit of supervisory pressure, and Sharaf had mastered the art of exploiting him. Having Habash posted just outside his door was like having a handy tool within easy reach.

  “I’ll take care of this one, Habash.” Sharaf handed the man a five-dirham note. “Go get a cup of tea. He’s more trouble than he’s worth, anyway.”

  It was far more generous treatment than Habash was used to, but he resisted anyway.

  “But, I can’t, sir. I—”

  “Habash, are you really going to be so ungrateful?”

  “No, sir. It’s just that Lieutenant Assad said that I, personally, was to—”

  “I’ll deal with Lieutenant Assad. By now he will have already forgotten your name. The only decision you need to worry about in the next half hour is milk or sugar. Hand me the paperwork. All of it, please.”

  “You can’t have the complaint!” Habash bent protectively over his typewriter. “I’m still writing it up.”

  Even ambitious flunkies had their limits, and Sharaf knew better than to risk further ill will.

  “The affidavit, then. It looks finished.”

  He snatched it from the desk before Habash could protest. Better than nothing, he supposed.

  Habash looked doleful, as if he knew this would only lead to trouble. He nonetheless took Sharaf’s money and bolted for the door, hoping perhaps that everything would turn out okay if he fled quickly enough from the scene of the crime. His departure set off a fresh round of groans from the waiting area, where everyone was quick to note that only two of the six desks were now manned.

  “This way,” Sharaf said to Keller.

  The American looked like he didn’t know whether to be relieved or upset. Not having read the charges, Sharaf couldn’t yet say which reaction was more appropriate. He shut the door to his office. Keller took the only other chair, facing directly across the desk.

  “I should have known you were behind this,” Keller said.

  “Sergeant Habash seems to think it was Lieutenant Assad’s idea.”

  “Oh, I see. Good cop, bad cop. Which one are you?”

  “I’m the ignorant cop, looking for an education.”

  “On a stupid trumped-up sex charge?”

  “Sex charge? Assad is charging you for what happened at the York?”

  “No. For what happened last night at the hotel. Or didn’t happen. It’s a complete misunderstanding, and if you’d just phone Ms. Weaver …”

  “Please. Allow me to examine the paperwork. I might actually be able to help.”

  The affidavit had been filed by the hotel security staff. Apparently someone had observed bawdy behavior on a hallway surveillance camera. Hardly the first time Sharaf had seen such a charge, but it was fairly astonishing at a high-ticket spot like the Shangri-La, where Westerners were generally allowed to cavort as much as they pleased, as long as it was behind closed doors. Perhaps the security man was new. Or maybe Assad had indeed played a role, seeking something in return.

  “So they arrested you at your hotel room?”

  “Woke me up. I was alone, of course, not that anyone cared. The whole thing’s ridiculous. All they need to do is contact Ms. Weaver. She’d clear it up in about ten seconds. By now she’s probably wondering where the hell I am. If this is your way of pressuring me for more information, you’re wasting your time. I’m more than willing to cooperate. This will only get a lot of people upset over nothing.”

  Obviously the fellow had no idea what he was up against. But Keller wouldn’t be at all useful to him in this agitated state unless Sharaf could first develop some leverage.

  “So you think this charge is nothing? Are you aware of the penalties in my country for this kind of behavior, Mr. Keller? I have seen men brought in on suspicion of prostitution simply for occupying the backseat of a taxi with an unmarried woman. Another poor fellow got three years—three years, sir—for disrobing on the beach at night with his girlfriend.”

  Sharaf watched, satisfied, as Keller’s eyes widened.

  “We are a young country, Mr. Keller. Young and wealthy. And like any young and wealthy individual, we can famously act on a whim, with a spirited temper to match. So, whatever you do, do not underestimate the grave potential of the charge facing you.”

  Keller swallowed hard. Sharaf placed a freshly opened bottle of water before him, and the man dutifully drank some. When Keller next spoke, his voice was subdued, chastened.

  “But I really did do nothing. Ms. Weaver will back me up.”

  “Don’t worry, I will contact her shortly. We at least owe you that much. Yet what am I to make of this affidavit? The hotel staff cites the indisputable evidence of video footage in which you are very clearly seen entering the room of a female guest late last night. In an obvious state of intoxication, I might add.”

  Keller reddened, then seemed to recover some of his previous spirit, and he sat up a little straighter. Sharaf was relieved to see it. In order for his plan—still hazy, still forming—to stand any chance of success, the American would first have to show some potential for tenacity, even rebelliousness.

  “Look. Yes, I went in her room. Guilty as charged. But it was for business. I was delivering a …”

  He paused, seeming to stumble as he reddened slightly. “I was delivering a business item that Ms. Weaver had requested. And if they check the time signature of the video they’ll no doubt see I was only there a few minutes.”

  Sharaf wondered what sort of “business item” could have made him blush, but that was a subject for later.

  “A lot can happen in a few minutes between a man and a woman, Mr. Keller, as you and I well know. But even the possibility of an illicit sexual congress could be overlooked if you hadn’t entered her room so forcefully.”

  “Forcefully? She invited me in.”

  “Apparently that’s not what the tape shows. I’ll read from the affidavit: ‘Subject then forced his way through doorway, despite female’s attempt to resist. Female pushed subject’s chest, but subject continued forward and shut door behind him.’”

  “But that’s crazy. I—”

  Keller stopped abruptly, and his frown disappeared.

  “Okay,” he said, brightening. “I think I know what happened. She dropped her key card and nudged me back so she could stoop to pick it up. All the video probably shows is her hand coming out through the doorway to push me. Someone in security must have overreacted. That’s all. Just call her. She’ll clear it up.”

  “As I said, I plan to. Because I am quite certain this charge will prove to be spurious.”

  “You believe me?”

  Relief and gratitude showed in Keller’s eyes. And they were good eyes, Sharaf saw. Even in their weariness they conveyed a dogged reliability, a trustworthy competence, the very sort of eyes his wife, Amina, was always drawn to whenever she sought an honest merchant or a reputable doctor.

  “Yes, I believe you,” Sharaf said. For the moment, at least, he had an ally. “That is why I am prepared to let you make that phone call. Provided, of course, that you are prepared to help me in return, if only for a few hours.”

  Most self-serving scoundrels would have agreed right away. Keller, to his credit, didn’t.

  “That depends on what kind of help you want.”

  Sharaf was impressed. The question now was how to best put the young man to use without exposing them both to peril—and without the Minister finding out.

  His desk phone rang.

  Sharaf held up a hand in abeyance. He lifted the receiver to hear a voice from his past, a source from the bare hinterlands, an acquaintance from boyhood days of rabbit hunts and falconry, of royal encampments in empty sands. The man had news, and it was instantly intriguing.

  “Where?” Sharaf asked, switching to Arabic.

  He noted the location i
n a rapid scrawl.

  “I will come immediately. And thank you, Daoud. As always, your good word and fine service are exceeded only by your generous hospitality. I am in your debt.”

  He hung up, and addressed Keller in English.

  “It appears I will need your help sooner than expected.” He rose from the desk. “Let’s go, before anyone thinks to reclaim you.”

  “Where?”

  “To identify a body.”

  “But Charlie has been—”

  “Not him. A woman. Caucasian, in a blue sequin dress. Sound familiar?”

  Keller nodded, speechless. He stood uncertainly. Sharaf then led the way back through the hubbub of the booking area toward the main exit. Fortunately, Sergeant Habash hadn’t returned, and everyone else was bent over their paperwork. The last thing he needed was someone remembering that the two of them had left the building together. They crossed the parking lot to his Camry, which looked very lonely in its far, empty corner.

  Then, without a further word between them, Keller and he climbed aboard and headed out onto the busy roadway, where Sharaf pointed his car toward the desert.

  8

  A Bedouin stood watch over the body, knee-deep in a depression of sand some thirty yards off the empty highway. His face reminded Sam of one of those nineteenth-century lithographs of Apache warriors—weathered skin, perpetual squint, a latent fierceness held in abeyance by a taut frown. His hair was long and black, and he wore a traditional white headdress that he had looped into place with a black egal. A red Toyota Land Cruiser, presumably his, was parked on the shoulder.

  Even with Sharaf pushing the Camry to the limit, it had taken nearly two hours to get there. As they braked to a halt, Sam saw that the body was barely visible from the road.

  “How did he ever see it?”

  “You or I wouldn’t have,” Sharaf said, his hand on the door latch. “The lazy people who dumped it wouldn’t have, either. That’s why they thought it was a suitable spot. But the Bedu always notice, and Daoud has an especially keen eye.”