Layover in Dubai

by Dan Fesperman

  “So what you’re doing is also illegal? Is that what you’re telling me?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Wonderful. What crime has this man committed? Fornication? Rape, even?”

  “Please, Amina. I can assure you he has committed no crime at all.”

  “Which is why no one can know he is here, because he is so pure and innocent. Yes, you’re making perfect sense. Good night, Anwar. Trouble me no more, please.”

  Great. He had made her even angrier. Meaning he didn’t dare reveal his own worries, which would have upset her more. Because to Sharaf’s mind, Keller’s presence imperiled far more than social propriety. If word leaked out, he could imagine armed intruders scaling the wall of the family compound to pry open doors and windows in the dead of night. Rogue policemen, or worse, would be at their doorstep.

  He tried to relax by reading Dostoevsky, but every line about guilt and torment only reminded him of his predicament, so he soon turned out the light. When he awoke shortly before five he knew it was useless to try to get back to sleep before prayers. So he rose, washed his hands and face, and then retreated to the parlor, where he knelt to pray. First he completed the late prayer from the night before, having forgotten it amid the turmoil of the evening. Then, a few minutes ahead of schedule, he offered the morning prayer, followed by a hasty version of the midday prayer. These three-for-one sessions weren’t exactly by the book, but he had learned to appreciate their economy on the pearling boat. Sharaf doubted God minded a few shortcuts. It was like dealing with any authority figure, he supposed. Show some respect and you’d generally be left to your own devices.

  He brewed a pot of coffee and took a steaming cup to his office at the center of the house, where he shut the door, opened his cell phone, and punched in the number for the Minister, another early riser.

  “Sharaf?”

  “Just checking in.”

  “Early, but I’m glad you called. I have something for you. Straight from the heart of the matter.”

  “Our Slavic friends?”

  “Word from the Tsar himself. Via my contacts, of course.” The Minister claimed to have sources in all sorts of unlikely places. Sharaf didn’t know whether to be impressed or alarmed.

  “Big doings tonight. A rare summit conference with the Persians. Eight o’clock.”

  “I thought we called them Iranians now. What’s the location?”

  “Neutral territory, out in the open. The mall at the Burjuman. Beyond that, my source couldn’t be more specific, but I’m sure you’ll manage to find them.”

  “Probably one of the restaurants in the upper courtyard. What’s the agenda?”

  “That’s what I want you to find out.”

  “Hard to see how, unless they invite me to join them.”

  “Oh, come on. You’re a resourceful man.”

  “Who tells you these things?”

  “About you or the Russians? And what does it matter, as long as it’s correct? By the way, about that American.”

  Sharaf tensed. He wondered what the Minister had heard.

  “The dead one?”

  “The live one. The witness. I’m told he has disappeared.”

  “I heard the same thing.”

  “You know nothing more?”

  “Why should I?”

  “Because you were interested in him. You told me so yourself.”

  “And you said to steer clear.”

  “Come on, Sharaf. I know how you operate. Where do you think he’s gone?”

  “To the embassy in Abu Dhabi, if he has any brains.”

  “Seeking asylum? Do you really think they would smuggle him out?”

  “His employer certainly has the clout. You’re the one with the connections. You tell me.”

  Silence. Sharaf suspected the Minister was smiling knowingly, having guessed the truth but trusting Sharaf not to screw things up. Or maybe that was wishful thinking.

  “Don’t make trouble for us, Sharaf. Don’t get reckless on me.”

  “Of course not.”

  “And keep me posted on tonight’s events.”

  That went without saying.

  A few moments later, the dawn call to prayer sounded from the neighborhood mosque, with its signature line, “Prayer is better than sleep.” He heard Laleh groan in disagreement from her bed as he trooped to the kitchen for more coffee. Still not a peep out of Keller. He expected Amina to appear in her robe to make breakfast, as was her custom. When she didn’t he sighed and made it himself, setting out fruit, bread, and yogurt on the table. Then he unfolded the morning’s fresh copy of Gulf News, his daily means of keeping up with the English-speaking world.

  The front page was the usual silliness, bright colors and bold headlines splashed on extravagantly glossy paper: An Israeli war game was in progress, drawing the typically hysterical reaction. Six new lanes had opened on Emirates Road, bringing it to twelve in all. Atop the page was a headline announcing that Sheikh Mohammed had been named the UAE’s “Distinguished Personality of the Year.” Now there was a surprise. He was indeed a great man, but this daily pandering was annoying.

  Sharaf flipped the page. The agency handling car registrations was planning to auction the rights to more license tags with single-digit numbers. It seemed like a pretty good idea, seeing as how someone had paid $15 million for a tag with the number 1. He turned another page. Three killed in horrendous crash. Local college girl arrested for smoking hashish. Did Laleh know her?

  There was nothing about a woman’s body being found in the desert, not that he had expected any coverage. Nothing yet about Charlie Hatcher, either. He had heard that the news would be released this afternoon, which would produce a brief onslaught of foreign press inquiries. He was happy to let Lieutenant Assad handle them.

  Down at the bottom of page five was a brief about a missing tourist. Sharaf scanned it and moved on to sports, but something about the story set a hook deep in his mind. Flipping back a page, he reread the item carefully. A few moments later he rose from the table, walked quietly down the hall, and slipped into the guest bedroom. Taking care to make as little noise as possible, he lifted Keller’s trousers from the back of a chair, checked the back pockets, found the man’s wallet and passport, left them both in place, and then folded the trousers over his arm. He picked up Keller’s belt, shirt, undershorts, socks, and shoes from a small, neat pile at the foot of the bed. Clutching the bundle tightly to his chest, he tiptoed back into the hallway and gently nudged the door shut behind him. Fortunately, Laleh and Amina were still in their rooms. He exited the rear of the house and walked to the carport, where the Camry was parked next to Amina’s and Laleh’s BMWs.

  The birds were in full morning song, and the first rays of sunlight were golden in the pale leaves of an olive tree. He opened the door of a small shed at the rear of the carport and stepped inside, where it smelled like potting soil and motor oil. Sharaf dropped Keller’s belongings onto the concrete floor. Then he leaned beneath a workbench and, grunting with effort, tugged out an old washtub of corrugated steel, and put Keller’s belongings inside. Turning to go, he decided to first check Keller’s wallet.

  The contents were about what he expected: cash in two currencies, American driver’s license, credit cards, and a sheaf of dated receipts, including one from the York Club from the night of Charlie Hatcher’s murder. The only surprise was a folded sheet of hotel stationery from the Shangri-La. Someone had written down three names and phone numbers. The numbers were local, and two were vaguely familiar, although he couldn’t place them. Below was “Monday, 4/14!” underlined twice, followed by a scribbled sequence of letters and numbers that made no sense at all.

  Was it connected to the case? Possibly. What could be so important about April 14, which was only six days away? It made him wonder what else Keller was holding back. He would delve into it later.

  He held on to the paper but put the wallet back into the pocket and returned the trousers to the tub, while making a
mental note to round up the rest of the necessary supplies later in the day. But to really make this plan work he would first have to phone his old friend Mansour, who, like Ali, had been a fellow diver on his pearl boat during that long ago summer.

  Sharaf congratulated himself on his idea as he relocked the shed. A little unorthodox, perhaps, but it just might succeed. It would also serve the dual purpose of keeping the American from running away. You couldn’t very well leave the country without a passport.

  He reentered the house to find that Keller was up and about, having dressed in some baggy clothes of Rahim’s. He did still have his suit coat, which seemed to be the only item that fit properly, but he wasn’t taking matters well at all.

  “What the hell did you do with my wallet and passport? Not to mention my clothes?”

  “No profanities in my household, if you please. I’ve taken those items into custody for evidentiary purposes. I assure you they’re quite safe.”

  “Evidence of what?”

  “Please. We will discuss these matters later. For now, it is time for breakfast.”

  “At least the damn shoes fit,” he muttered. “Pardon my French.”

  He seemed on the verge of protesting more, but held his tongue. Sharaf was guessing the young man didn’t want to make a fuss in front of Laleh, who had just appeared. She wore an abaya, praise God, although she had showered and dressed in record time.

  Amina joined them seconds later, lips drawn. Her demeanor cast a pall on the table, and for a while the only sounds were of chewing and sipping. Sharaf broke the silence just before his last swallow of coffee.

  “There are some serious matters we need to deal with,” he said to Keller.

  “I should say so,” Amina chimed in.

  Laleh bent forward to her bowl of fruit and yogurt. Was she suppressing a laugh? Keller kept his head down, seemingly wary of the family dynamics. Sharaf decided that the young man and he had better evacuate the premises before there was further trouble. He escorted Keller to his windowless hideaway and settled him onto the couch.

  “I have a busy schedule planned for you later today, but first I have to keep up appearances by going into the office. While I’m gone I’m afraid you will have to remain locked in this room.”

  Keller opened his mouth to protest. Sharaf raised a hand.

  “Let me finish. I know this is a trial, but you must be patient awhile longer. Even if you managed to leave the house, without your passport you would not be much use to anyone except the people who want to throw you in jail, or worse. And don’t worry. When we have concluded our chores, I’ll let you make that phone call. I promise.”

  That must have been what Keller wanted to hear. He shut his mouth, adopted a resigned frown, and sagged back onto the couch.

  “What am I supposed to do all day?”

  “There are some books in English here.” Sharaf gestured toward oak shelves along a far wall. “You are welcome to read them. I shouldn’t be more than a few hours.”

  “And what are these chores you’re talking about?”

  “We will discuss it later.”

  Sharaf wasn’t ready to tell Keller they would be attending a Mafia powwow. He hadn’t yet figured out how they would pull it off, and it would only scare the poor fellow. Understandably so. Because if Sharaf’s hunch was correct, Charlie Hatcher’s killers would be among the participants. Now all he had to do was figure out how to let Keller make an identification of the guilty parties without anyone—the Minister included—finding out. It would be a tricky business in the wide-open spaces of the Burjuman Mall. The mere thought of it made his stomach churn and growl. At this rate, he wouldn’t be drinking camel’s milk for days.

  11

  Just a few more hours max, Sam thought, and he would be out of this mess. But for the moment he was back on the floor of the Camry, listening to the sounds of stalled Dubai traffic through Sharaf’s open window.

  It was just after 8 p.m., well after rush hour, yet they were at a standstill. A cloud of greasy smoke told him they were idling near a kebab shop. He heard sidewalk chatter in three languages. A man and a woman were the loudest, arguing passionately in some Slavic tongue and getting rougher by the moment.

  “What’s going on?” he asked from the floor.

  “A prostitute and her pimp. The subject is money. She’s Asian; her Russian is terrible. His accent is Georgian, like Stalin’s. Oh, dear.”

  “What happened?”

  The shouting gave way to the sound of a scuffle.

  “He slapped her. Now he’s forcing her into his car.”

  “Shouldn’t you do something?”

  “I’m not even in uniform. And the last thing we want is attention, especially when the people we are going to see are probably his bosses. In fact, you can sit up now. We are almost there.”

  “Russians?” Sam struggled up from the floor and brushed himself off. “You’re taking me to some Mafia thing?”

  Traffic was moving again. No Asian woman or Russian man was in sight.

  “I was hoping you might recognize a few of them from the other night at the York.”

  “Are you crazy?”

  “My wife thinks so. But only because I brought you into the house, a viper to steal her daughter’s virtue. Do not worry, we will stay well out of sight.”

  “You said we were just going to a mall.”

  “We are. To observe a strelka of rival factions, Russians and Iranians.”

  “A what?”

  “A meeting. A conclave. These fellows have taught me all sorts of Russian that my tutors never dreamed of. A strelka is a meeting of rival thugs.”

  “They meet at malls?”

  “Out in the open, where they know they can trust each other, and neither side has a natural advantage. They’ll probably stake out part of a restaurant. We’ll watch from a safe distance.”

  Sam saw they were only a few blocks from the York Club.

  “I didn’t know there were any malls in this part of town.”

  “It’s Dubai. There are malls in every part of town. And don’t let the look of the district fool you. The Burjuman is very upscale, although I cannot say it is one of my favorites.”

  “You have favorite malls?”

  It came out harsher than he intended. Sharaf turned in his seat.

  “Tell me, Mr. Keller, have you ever been in Dubai in July?”

  “No.”

  “You would not ask that question if you had. In the summer the malls are our Great Outdoors. Everyone has their favorites. Everyone. Because of this, each mall has acquired its own personality, its own clientele. And the Burjuman, well, it is not to my liking, even though I can certainly appreciate its strengths as well as its drawbacks.”

  “Which are?”

  “You are an observant man. I am sure you will see.”

  Looming just ahead was a sleek glass tower, maybe thirty stories tall, with curving walls that tapered to a sharp point, making the structure a giant wedge. Perched atop it was a huge fan of perforated steel, like the sail of a capsized windsurfer.

  “Is that it?”

  “The mall is on the lower floors. We will park underneath it.”

  They swerved into an underground garage. Sharaf snatched a ticket as the gate swung clear. The Camry was a humble addition to rows of gleaming SUVs and luxury sedans.

  “So we’re going to walk up to these guys, just like that?” Sam asked.

  “Patience.”

  There were plenty of empty spaces, but Sharaf drove to the lowest level. In the middle of the vast deck was a glass-walled chamber with an escalator that climbed past a roaring man-made waterfall cascading from the overhead floors where, presumably, all the shops were. They ignored that entrance, and walked instead to unmarked elevator doors in a far corner of the parking deck. Sharaf punched in a numeric code to open the doors and they rode up a few floors. The rear door opened onto a nondescript hallway leading to unmarked steel doors at the far end. Sharaf knocked. A
buzzer sounded and they entered a gray vestibule rimmed in chrome.

  A fellow in a security uniform emerged from around the corner. Sharaf, wearing gray Western slacks and a black long-sleeved shirt, flashed an ID, and the man wordlessly escorted them to the next room. Sam had no idea what a mall security center was supposed to look like, but he suspected that, as with so many other things in Dubai, this one was lavish and excessive.

  A massive three-panel bank of video monitors fanned out around a semicircle of black Formica-topped desks. Each panel had more than a hundred screens, all of them in full color and crystal clear. The desks were covered with telephones and laptops. A uniformed man sat in front of each panel, watching intently. All three of them wore headphones, so apparently they could listen as well as observe.

  “Looks like the control room of a nuclear power plant,” Sam said.

  “Except here the stakes are higher,” Sharaf said, with no hint of irony. “Just a few months ago at the Wafi Mall a gang of Serbian thieves drove two Audis through the entrance and smashed their way into a Graff jewelry store. In ninety seconds they stole thirteen million dollars’ worth of loot, then drove back out, right past the fake Egyptian temple and all the shoppers eating ice cream. Here at the Burjuman there are forty different merchants selling high-end jewelry, including Tiffany and Cartier. Extravagant goods call for extravagant protection.”

  Sam scanned the screens. Impressive names leaped out from the storefronts—Saks. Chanel. Dior. Versace. Dunkin’ Donuts?

  The shoppers were nothing special. Shorts and beach clothes, plenty of blue jeans. Only rarely did he glimpse someone in traditional local dress—the men in white kandouras, the women draped head to toe in black.

  “Weird,” he said, the word slipping out.

  “What is?”

  “There are hardly any Emiratis. They almost look out of place.”

  “Now you see why it is not one of my favorites. That is why I wore these Western clothes. To fit in, if I have to. I feel like a tourist here. That, plus all the damned Russians, the mob types in particular.”