Layover in Dubai

by Dan Fesperman

  “This is their hangout?”

  “One of Anatoly Rybakov’s, anyway. A local chieftain. People call him the Tsar.”

  “I’d have thought he’d prefer Emirates Mall, the one with the ski slope.”

  “Russians who come to Dubai have had quite enough of snow and ice. If Rybakov gets homesick he can always turn up the air conditioner and drink a liter of vodka. But it’s mostly their wives and daughters who come here. There. Screen twelve. Look at her. Zoom in, please.”

  The security man nodded, typed a command on his laptop, and maneuvered a joystick. The image closed in on a sturdy Russian woman, middle-aged, with rouged cheeks. She stood outside Louis Vuitton. Her bleached hair was piled into a bun, which served as a perch for jeweled designer sunglasses. Tight slacks, fire-engine red, were matched by a bulging spandex top, which was draped by a clingy white cardigan she had buttoned to just below her massive cleavage. She puffed forcefully on a cigarette, inhaling greedily, as if she stood to win a million rubles if she could finish within a minute.

  Alongside her was a formidable old babushka in a scarf and peasant garb, strictly Old Country, and shaped like one of those Matroyshka nesting dolls—the big one that all the little ones would fit into. Maybe they were in there now, squirming to get out.

  “The younger one is Rybakov’s wife,” Sharaf said. “I am guessing that’s one reason he chose this place. Give her a night of shopping while he takes care of business.”

  “So the Russians picked the place?”

  “They usually do.”

  “And the Iranians don’t mind?”

  “They are outnumbered here. Or outgunned, anyway. The Indian mob, now that would be another matter. As for the Iranians, when your people have been here for four hundred years as traders and smugglers, you don’t get too worked up about little things like who picks the meeting place, as long as you are still making money.”

  The woman on screen 12 was on the move.

  “Follow her,” Sharaf said. The security man nodded and moved the joystick. The camera panned left, tracking her progress, which was hobbled somewhat by the slow-moving babushka.

  “She’ll appear next on thirteen,” the security man said.

  They followed her across three more screens until she approached a man sitting on a bench. She opened her Louis Vuitton bag to show him the fruits of her labors. He nodded, neither smiling nor frowning. Then he stood. He was compact and deeply tanned, with bristly gray hair trimmed close to the scalp. Black jacket, black slacks, shiny black shirt, with the top two buttons undone to reveal silver chest hair and a thin gold chain. Two younger, bigger men reared up behind him, peeking over his shoulder into the shopping bag as if it might be carrying a bomb.

  “That’s Anatoly Rybakov. Recognize any of the muscle?”

  “No. Sorry.”

  “Do you have sound?”

  The security man nodded and clicked a mouse. A garble of Russian and ambient noise burst from a nearby speaker, muffled by the raindrop crackle of a fountain.

  “Will the audio be clearer in a restaurant?”

  The security man nodded firmly, a man certain in his judgments.

  The wife and the babushka headed off for more shopping, while Rybakov chatted with his bodyguards.

  “Is this how he always operates?” Sam asked. “‘Hi, I’m a Russian thug, let’s chat?’”

  “Officially he is the regional executive for RusSiberian Metals and Investment. Their specialties are Russian commodities and real estate development.”

  “Is any of it legit?”

  “The commodities were all looted at subsidy prices. The real estate is for laundering money. Yet another reason you see so much construction here.”

  Rybakov and his bodyguards began walking. They stepped aboard a rising escalator.

  “Stay with him,” Sharaf said.

  “He’ll be coming up next on one-thirty-seven,” the security man said. “Center panel.”

  Sharaf and Sam eased behind the next fellow with headphones, watching over his shoulder. They followed Rybakov’s progress across four more screens to the uppermost of the mall’s four levels, where he entered a restaurant called Bella Donna. The view of level four, offered panoramically if you scanned enough screens at once, was fairly spectacular. It was a darkened area of subdued lighting. The mall’s arched glass ceiling was underlaid by teak framing and a spaghetti of blue neon, which cast an eerie glow on the restaurant’s rooftop tables, where Rybakov was now taking a seat with his bodyguards. They were the only customers up there. Two minutes later more Russians arrived. Four more beefy fellows, nearly indistinguishable in dress and demeanor.

  “That’s him!” Sam exclaimed, hardly believing his eyes. “Second from the left. One of the guys from the York.”

  “In the gray jacket?”

  “Yes. I’m sure of it.”

  “Yuri Arzhanov. One of the Tsar’s lieutenants. A real vory-v-zakonye type of enforcer, which is another word my tutors never taught me. A leadership title he would have earned in prison. And you’re positive he’s the one you saw at the York?”

  “Absolutely. He stared right at me.”

  “Interesting. People of his rank don’t normally dirty their hands with blood errands. Recognize anyone else?”

  Sam watched the group fill a second table. Two chairs across from Rybakov were still empty. Presumably they were reserved for the top Iranians.

  “The one on the far right. I think that might be the second guy, but I’m not as certain.”

  “He is not familiar to me. Probably one of Arzhanov’s minions. Could we have some sound, please?”

  It still wasn’t optimum. Voices overlapped and were disrupted by the clatter of cutlery and glasses, the thumping beat of music. But definitely better than before.

  The Iranians arrived, a contingent of seven. The one in the middle stepped forward to address Rybakov, a handshake that turned into an awkward bear hug. The Iranian seemed to resist before finally submitting with an expression of irritation, as if he realized he had already been put at a disadvantage.

  “Mohsen Hedayat,” Sharaf said. “The other six, I haven’t a clue.”

  Everyone sat. Hedayat and an underling took seats with Rybakov and the two Russian bodyguards. The other Russians sat at the second table, while the extra Iranians claimed a third on the opposite side. A waiter materialized, stating his name and rattling off the specials just as he would have done with a party of British housewives. Everyone ordered drinks and settled into their seats. A few even put napkins in their laps. The two bosses began talking, a tentative exchange that soon grew fairly animated.

  “What are they saying?” Sam asked.

  “Rybakov is apologizing. Not exactly with grace, but an apology nonetheless. He is doing it in Persian, probably out of deference. His grammar is terrible, but at least he is going slow enough for me to follow.”

  A pause, then more.

  “Hedayat talks too fast for me to decipher. I don’t think Rybakov can understand him, either, because someone is translating for him, and now he has gone back to Russian. All I can tell for sure is that Hedayat is unhappy about something, and is demanding satisfaction.”

  “What was the apology for?”

  “I am not sure. But I think I have an idea.”

  “What, then?”

  “Quiet. I am trying to listen.”

  More talk. Sharaf leaned forward in concentration, and Sam didn’t interrupt. The conversation went on for another five minutes, continuing even as the drinks arrived. The bosses gestured toward their contingents, and several men from both factions stood, the Russians a bit uncertainly.

  “Well, now. This is interesting.”

  “What?”

  “Rybakov is ordering your two boys to accompany four of the Iranians. To make some sort of pickup, apparently. Arzhanov doesn’t look happy about the arrangement, but he is not in a position to refuse. There they go.”

  The six men departed the restauran
t, the two Russians flanked on all sides by the four Iranians, like a parade formation as they strolled back into the open spaces of the mall.

  “Moving to two-forty-nine,” the security man said. “They’re bypassing the escalators and heading for the rear elevator.”

  “The one we used?” Sam asked. Were they coming here? Had he been set up?

  “No,” Sharaf said. “Opposite side.”

  The men moved briskly. The Iranians were still grouped around the Russians like bodyguards. They boarded the elevator and the doors closed.

  “What’s the next screen?” Sharaf asked.

  “The down arrow is lit,” the security man said. “They will exit either on three-twenty-two, two-thirteen, or seventy-six. Those are on three separate panels.”

  Sam and Sharaf feverishly scanned back and forth.

  “There!” Sam shouted. “Seventy-six!”

  “That’s the lower level,” Sharaf said, “down where we parked.”

  “There’s a blind spot,” the security man said. “Two cameras on that level are out.”

  “Since when?” Sharaf asked.

  “An hour ago.”

  “Shit! What quadrant?”

  “Southeast corner.”

  “Let’s go!” Sharaf said.

  Sam followed him as they rushed out of the room and back down the corridor to the elevator, where Sharaf cursed as he fumbled with the key code.

  “You see? These people have extended their influence everywhere. I would bet any amount of money that someone from mall security was bribed to disable those two cameras.”

  “Why?”

  “Can’t you guess?”

  He could. And it was the last thing he wanted to be rushing to see. The elevator opened, and they headed toward the glass cubicle in the middle of the deck.

  “There they are, way on the other side,” Sharaf said. A black Toyota Prado SUV eased into view from the upper ramp, tires squealing as it headed toward the Mafia men in the far corner. Sharaf and Sam had just reached the glass walls of the escalator cube.

  “Stay back!” Sharaf said. “We’ll watch from here.”

  The car stopped next to the men, maybe a hundred yards from where Sharaf and Sam stood, trying to watch through the glass walls.

  “Should we be out in the open like this?” Sam whispered even though the nearby fountain was roaring like a waterfall. His question was answered in rapid succession by two muffled pops, sharp but wheezy barks that echoed dully off the low concrete ceiling. The two Russians dropped out of sight, and the Prado’s rear hatch swung open. The torsos of the four Iranians stooped downward, then moved toward the Prado. The hatch slammed shut and the Iranians climbed in through the front doors. It all happened within seconds.

  “Jesus! Did they just—?”

  “Get inside!” Sharaf hissed. “Try to get up the escalators before we’re seen!”

  Sam did as he was told, weak in the knees. He didn’t dare look below, but he heard the tires of the Prado squealing as the roaring SUV headed back in their direction. Sharaf clambered up the rising steps, and Sam followed. Just before they moved out of sight he glimpsed a flash of black metal as the Prado raced past below, toward the exit ramp. When they stepped off on the next floor, Sharaf was panting loudly. A Japanese family, overloaded with shopping bags, bumped past them with a stream of apologies in halting English. Sam tugged Sharaf aside.

  “Where to now?” he asked.

  “We wait five minutes for everyone to clear out, then we do the same.”

  “What about Rybakov? Won’t he be waiting for his men?”

  Sharaf shook his head.

  “His business here is complete.”

  “But—?”

  “It was an arrangement. Part of his apology. Arzhanov must have done something very wrong. By killing your friend, most likely. What doesn’t make sense is why that would have upset the Iranians. They don’t control prostitution. The Russians do.”

  “Could Charlie have been working for them?”

  “The Iranians? Do you really think so?”

  “No. But I didn’t know him very well.” And it certainly fit with Nanette’s theory that Charlie was involved with unsavory dealings. He wondered if she had suspected as much even earlier. It would better explain why she had wanted him to track Charlie’s movements. “What will you do now? Arrest them?”

  “Those men in the Prado? As far as I’m concerned this never happened.”

  Sam was amazed.

  “You’re not reporting it?”

  “What is there to report? We saw two men drop from sight and heard popping noises that could have been cars backfiring. The whole time, the security cameras were blind as bats. There are no bodies to be found, and never will be, unless Daoud finds them for us. More to the point, if I report this the first question will be, ‘What were you doing following Anatoly Rybakov, and why was the American with you?’”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Around my office, Mr. Keller, the prevailing view is that as long as these people settle their own affairs without involving the rest of us, then who are we to interfere? Why do you think our crime rate is so low? It is the same reason there are so few fatal accidents at construction sites. All that matters is how you do the counting.”

  Sam supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised. But if all that were true, then why was Sharaf so interested in this case? Was he the only cop who cared, or was he, too, part of the problem?

  “What do we do now?” Sam asked.

  “We go to our final stop, just around the corner. Then you can make your phone call.”

  That was a relief to hear, although Sam was shaken by what he’d just seen. What he really wanted was a stiff drink, but Sharaf was already bustling toward the exit. A few minutes later they emerged on the street and strolled past the Burjuman’s ground-level shops. Road workers were tearing up the median at 9 p.m. to add an extra lane. Across the way a construction crew was building a high-rise. This place never rested.

  Sharaf pushed through a revolving door into a sushi bar, where a long conveyor belt carried food past diners along a three-sided counter. The policeman led them to a pair of seats away from the window.

  “Who are we meeting?” Sam whispered.

  “No one. I’m hungry. Rybakov’s little rendezvous made me miss dinner.”

  “I don’t have much of an appetite.”

  “Then don’t eat. Any policeman who went off his feed after an episode like that wouldn’t live very long.”

  Sharaf plucked a purple plate from the conveyor belt. A colorful menu card told Sam it was a dragon roll, with eel, crab, avocado, and spicy rice.

  “I wouldn’t have guessed you for sushi.”

  “You also wouldn’t have guessed a CEO would have a curfew. Yet she does.”

  Sam said nothing.

  “She lives in our house by choice, you know. It’s not me or her mother making her do it, even though she likes to say so. The reality is, a single Emirati woman can’t rent her own apartment, even if her parents let her.”

  “It’s illegal?”

  “No. But there isn’t a landlord in Dubai who would do it. And as long as she lives in my house, she lives by my rules. One rule is that she doesn’t talk to unfamiliar men who happen to be there on her father’s business.”

  “Sorry.”

  “You’re forgiven. She knew better. And if, while my back was turned, she gave you one of her business cards, I would like you to please return it now.”

  Sharaf held out a hand.

  “She didn’t,” Sam lied. “We never made it that far.”

  The wording made it sound like they had been caught making out on the couch, and Sam blushed. His reaction drew a fleeting grin. It was the first time he had seen Sharaf smile, and Sam was surprised by how much it pleased him. In spite of everything, he was beginning to like the man. Maybe it was the fatherly gruffness, which for all its testiness was sort of comforting. He did still wonder what Sharaf’s real
motives were, but he sensed a basic honesty. Or maybe he had been swayed by Laleh.

  Sharaf made quick work of the first plate and reached for a tuna roll on an orange saucer. He spritzed soy sauce into a bowl, stirred in a lump of wasabi, then swaddled a piece of the roll with a slice of pickled ginger before dipping it in the sauce. He downed it in a single bite, wincing as the wasabi exploded in his sinuses. Then he flagged down a waitress and ordered tea.

  “And you, sir?” she asked Sam. “Something from the hot menu, maybe?”

  In spite of himself, he was now hungry.

  “Shrimp tempura. And I’ll have a tuna roll from the belt.”

  “To drink?”

  “Do you have beer?”

  She frowned. So did Sharaf. Sam then remembered that alcohol was nonexistent once you strayed beyond a hotel. Even the bar at the ski slope had been affiliated with an adjoining hotel. So had all the discos he and Charlie visited.

  “Mineral water, then.”

  “Tell me,” Sharaf said after the waitress departed. “And this is not out of piety, I am only curious. Why do you Americans need to consume alcohol with every meal? Is it for digestion? Or is it from some compulsion to chemically relax?”

  “With beer I like the taste. Especially with the wasabi. The tang of the hops. The yeastiness.”

  “Tell me about beer. Gin I can smell from across the room. Whiskey, too. Vodka, as far as I can determine, might as well be odorless rocket fuel, mined straight from an iceberg. I suppose that is why the Russians like it. But with beer you mentioned the yeastiness. Does it taste at all like kvass? Because a Russian I once knew told me that kvass tasted like liquid bread. I tried some once—it has no alcohol, you see—and he was right. Is beer the same?”

  “Liquid bread? Maybe a little. But I’ve never had kvass, so I can’t really compare.”

  He had seen it, though, served by street vendors in Kiev. On a summer day it had looked refreshing enough to make him curious. But he hadn’t tried it, mostly because the vendor was using the same glass for every customer, wiping it between swallows with a soggy towel. Such worries seemed foolish after what he had been through in Dubai. And now here he was in a sushi bar, of all places, seated next to an Arab cop while hiding in plain view from mobsters and, for all he knew, the rest of the police force.