It was a raid, plain and simple, and Sam was the quarry. He dropped the towel to the ground and backed away, using the shed for cover. Then he turned and ran for the rear wall of the family compound. It was about eight feet high. The first time he jumped, his hands slid off the top. The second time they held, and he grunted and pulled until he was in position to awkwardly sling a leg across the top. The baggy borrowed clothes hampered his movements, but the shouts of the policemen kept him going. Fortunately he was still screened from view by the shed. He dropped heavily to the grass on the other side of the wall, and found himself in an almost identical compound. It, too, had a wrought iron gate at the end of a driveway. Sam easily climbed over it onto a sidewalk that ran alongside a busy four-lane road. The median was a narrow strip of grass with an iron fence, and there was no opening in the fence for several blocks in either direction.
Traffic was light, so Sam darted across the first two lanes and scaled the fence as a passing driver slowed down to stare. He then bounded across the last two lanes to the far sidewalk and took stock of his surroundings.
He knew the police would soon realize he wasn’t in the house, and would probably begin patrolling the neighborhood. He was vulnerable out here in the open, and he was already sweating enough to soak his clothes. It was too hot to be wearing his suit jacket, but as the only item of apparel that fit properly it made him look a bit less ridiculous.
He had to find shelter. Looking east he saw nothing but more houses. A few blocks to the west there were some commercial buildings. Even if they were offices he could duck inside, so he took off for them at a dead run. After a block he thought better of it, figuring he was more likely to attract attention by running. Sweat was pouring down his face.
When he reached the buildings he was relieved to spot a sidewalk cutting between two of them to an inner brick courtyard. Inside was a small shopping plaza, tucked well out of sight of the road. A restaurant was to his right, a kitchen boutique was straight ahead, and a Coffee Bean café was to his left. He ducked through the smoked-glass doors of the café and took a seat at a corner table with his back to the wall. Sweat dripped onto the tabletop. The five seated customers—three teenage girls in one group, two women in Western business suits in another—stopped in mid-conversation and eyed him with a touch of apprehension. So did the two young men behind the counter. Sam smiled wanly and pretended to study the chalkboard menu as he wiped his face dry with a napkin.
In a few seconds conversation returned to normal. He glanced nervously toward the door, but no one was in pursuit.
For the moment he was safe. But where could he go next? He had no money, no phone, no charge cards, and no passport. For a few moments he verged on panic. Then he calmed himself and glanced again at the menu, if only for the benefit of the other customers. It was then that he remembered the one item he did have, tucked in the inner pocket of his suit jacket.
He reached inside and retrieved Laleh Sharaf’s business card.
Sam turned toward the two businesswomen, who were speaking English in British accents. He smiled in a way that he hoped was neither maniacal nor threatening, and launched his cover story.
“Excuse me. I just arrived this morning after an overnight flight from the States. They lost my luggage, which is why I’m wearing these ridiculous clothes, and now I’m afraid I’ve missed an appointment with a friend who was supposed to meet me here. I’d call him, but my cell phone is dead and the charger is in my luggage, and, well, I was just wondering if I might borrow one of your phones to make one quick call?”
“Certainly,” one of the women answered, although her eyes said she was anything but certain about Sam. She handed over the phone without leaning toward him an inch more than necessary.
“Thanks.”
He turned in the other direction and punched in the number. A receptionist answered in English, which he supposed was the language of commerce in Media City. He reluctantly offered his name, and she put him through to Laleh without a moment’s delay.
“Are you safe?” She sounded almost frantic, and he wondered why.
“Sort of. I’m at a café a few blocks from your house. The police came when I was out back, so I ran for it.”
“My father’s been arrested. I’ve been calling and calling the house, trying to reach you.”
“Arrested?” He glanced toward the door, already losing hope. The woman who had loaned him the phone narrowed her eyes. Maybe she was eavesdropping.
“My father’s friend Ali is making arrangements for you as we speak. Where did you say you were?”
“Some café—the Coffee Bean.”
“It must be the one off Jumeirah Road. Don’t move. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
She hung up. He wiped his sweat from the phone and returned it, feeling more like a fugitive than ever. The countermen seemed edgy again, and he didn’t have a single dirham to buy a coffee.
“I’m meeting a friend,” he said to one of them. He cleared his throat self-consciously and stared out the glass walls. Fifteen minutes later—she must have driven especially fast—Laleh strode briskly into the sunny courtyard. Sam was shocked to see that she wasn’t wearing her abaya. He stood quickly and met her just as she was coming through the door. They both looked around nervously, and neither spoke until they reached her car.
Already she was a different young woman from the one he had met at her house. She was neither the flirtatious girl on her home turf nor the confident young businesswoman in the magazine. You could tell she was uncertain in this new role, yet a little excited by it as well.
“I’ve spoken with Ali,” she said. “I’m driving you to Media City. One of my creative people is out on a call. You can wait in his office until Ali is ready to move you. You really should do something about those clothes, you know.”
“Speaking of clothes—”
Laleh blushed. “You’re not to say a word of this to my mother or father.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it. And I’d be dressed better myself if your dad hadn’t put my clothes in a tub of water.”
“He what?”
She looked at him like he had lost his mind, so he didn’t belabor the point. Laleh pressed her key to pop the locks of the BMW. Then she paused, as if she wasn’t quite sure where to put him. He supposed she almost never rode anywhere with a male her age, not without an escort.
“Should I lie down in the back? It’s what your father had me do.”
“Yes.” She seemed relieved by the suggestion. “It’s probably best for you to stay out of sight.”
At least her car had plenty of floor space. There was even room to sit up. He wondered if this was going to be his mode of transportation from now on in Dubai.
When she turned the key in the ignition, music blared from the speakers. There was flustered movement up front as she switched off the radio.
“Sorry.”
“No problem. You can play it if you want.”
“That’s all right. Are you comfortable?”
“I’m fine. Thanks for coming to get me.”
She put the car in gear and eased away from the curb, heading west.
“Ali told me my father was desperate for someone to get you out of there, although I doubt it was me he would have preferred for the job, especially if it means spending time alone with you. Well, not really alone, but …”
“I know what you mean. Why was he arrested? Because of me?”
“Ali wasn’t sure. He just said they took him away in a meat wagon, the van they use for common criminals. It was clear they wanted to make a spectacle of it.”
“That doesn’t sound good.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
A few minutes of stop-and-go driving passed in silence while Sam caught his breath. She had rolled up the windows and switched on the air conditioner. His sweaty clothes were clammy, but it felt good to be out of harm’s way. Laleh pulled onto a big, smooth highway—Sheikh Zayed Road, Sam guessed—and the BMW kicked into
high gear.
In a few miles the silence grew uncomfortable. It was awkward enough trying to strike up a conversation from down on the floor, and he wasn’t sure what to say to a young woman who was probably just as nervous. He decided to break the ice with family talk.
“Your dad seems like a pretty reasonable guy. Except maybe where you’re concerned.”
“He’s come a long way even there, considering where he started. You should hear him talk about what things were like when he was a boy. A woman my age couldn’t even leave the house unescorted, unless she was married.”
“Wasn’t Dubai mostly desert then?”
“Yes, but he lived on the creek. When he was smaller his family lived in a shack built of palm fronds. Lots of people did. Then his father struck it rich and built a big house with a wind tower. Even then they only had electricity six hours a day, with one lightbulb per room. They had a well in their house, but it was salt water, only good for doing the dishes. Sweet water had to be hauled in by donkey, all the way from Hamriya, and it had worms. You had to wait until they settled to the bottom.”
“How’d his dad make his fortune?”
“Pearling, I think. And smuggling gold to India. Apparently pretty much everyone was doing it. Sort of like real estate today. My dad worked on his father’s boats one summer, but he never really talks much about that part of his life, except with old friends like Ali.”
“What made him want to be a policeman?”
“There is a story he tells from when he was a boy. A doctor they knew was the first man in the neighborhood with a TV, so everyone used to go there to watch while the electricity was on. There was only one station, run by the Americans at the Aramco oil company in Saudi Arabia. So the picture would come and go, and most of the programs were in English. Of course, my dad had already learned a lot of English from his tutors, so he would translate for everyone, especially during their favorite, the Perry Mason show.”
“I’ve heard of it. About a lawyer, I think.”
“Yes, a lawyer who always won. My father said he always felt like he was taking part in the victory, a partner of this man who solved every crime. I think he would have gone to law school if his father would have sent him overseas. But he didn’t, so …”
“Being a policeman was the next best thing.”
“Yes.”
“Good story.”
“If it’s true.”
“You don’t believe him?”
“I believe him. I just think there was something more. Something that he doesn’t talk about. His sense of justice is far too strong. He is adamant about it, even when it hurts his career. I don’t think you get to be that way just by watching a TV show.”
“Maybe not.”
Her remarks reminded him of something Charlie had said on the night he died, something about how easily people fell into predatory behavior. “Don’t you fall into that trap, old son,” he had warned. “Once you do, atonement is damned near impossible.”
He considered the implications of those words as the wheels hummed on the pavement. Soon afterward they exited the highway, and within moments Laleh had pulled into a parking lot.
“This is my building. We shouldn’t be seen entering together, so I want you to stay here while I go inside. Wait five minutes and then follow. Here are my keys.” She reached back across the seat. “My offices are on the fifth floor, suite 516. The receptionist will be expecting you. Give her my keys and keep going to the first office on your right. The door will be unlocked, and it will be empty. You might have to wait a few hours, but I’ll come and get you when Ali arrives.”
She got out and shut the door behind her. He listened as the sound of her footsteps faded. It was a trusting, even naive gesture. He could have easily driven back to the Sharafs’ house to see if the coast was clear, and then grabbed his soggy passport and credit cards for a trip to the airport. Buying a ticket would have been no problem, but he wasn’t sure he could have sneaked past the border authorities onto a flight home, especially if Assad had put his name on some sort of watch list.
But even if he had been inclined to try, he wouldn’t have felt right taking advantage of Laleh’s trust. Or of her father’s trust, either, now that Sharaf was apparently in trouble on his behalf.
So after five minutes he squirmed up onto the backseat, opened the rear door, and hopped out before locking the car. Only later, when he found out what a terrible destination Ali had arranged for him, would he regret the decision.
14
“I’ve sold you into slavery,” said the grinning man whom Laleh had just introduced as Ali al-Futtaim. “Not really, of course, but that’s what it’s going to feel like.”
Sam looked to Laleh for further explanation, or some hint of a smile to indicate this was Ali’s idea of a joke. He noticed she had put on an abaya for Ali’s benefit. She shrugged and shook her head, seemingly as befuddled as he was.
The three of them stood in Laleh’s office with the door closed. It was dusk, and everyone else had gone home. Her work space contained none of the ambiguity of her bedroom. White walls, gray trim, all the furniture upholstered in red. Nothing frilly or frivolous, but there were plenty of designs and mock-ups for proposed advertisements and marketing campaigns, posted on walls and easels, and spread across the broad white expanse of her desk. The desk itself resembled a command post—three-sided, with two phones, a PC, and a Mac. The Mac had a flat-screen monitor bigger than the television in her bedroom.
The view through her smoked-glass window looked out across Jumeirah Beach Road toward the palms of the Royal Mirage resort and beyond, across the emerald waters of the Persian Gulf. Off to the right, you could see the glittery archipelago of the huge Palm development, with its beehive of new villas and hotels.
From his hiding place in the office next door, Sam had listened for more than seven hours as phones rang and people came and went in the corridor. Some were her employees, others were clients. All sought her advice, and everyone spoke English. Once or twice he overheard animated discussions in which Laleh’s point of view sometimes yielded ground but always prevailed. Not by fiat, but by persuasion. The prevailing attitude among her employees seemed to be that Laleh Sharaf knew what she was doing, and you had better as well if you wanted to keep working there. Not once in those seven hours had Sam heard the call to prayer. Either no one had yet built a mosque out this way or the nearest muezzin wasn’t amplified enough to overcome the insulated walls and the constant sigh of air-conditioning.
Sam realized he had judged Laleh unfairly from all the trappings in her bedroom. No matter how she’d come up with the money to start her business, this was no dabbler or hobbyist. She was a young woman with a plan, a dedicated professional.
The question now was what to make of this fellow Ali, who frankly seemed a touch too slick to be a confidant of a rumpled old pro like Sharaf. His white kandoura was pressed and spotless, which made it seem as if he was gliding with every step. He wore a spicy scent and had an enormous watch and three rings on his fingers. From his smooth English and his familiar and comfortable manner it was clear he was accustomed to dealing with people of every nationality from all walks of life. Maybe that was why Sharaf and he were a match—Sharaf supplying the spit, and Ali the polish; the cop keeping his own counsel while his pal played the bluff extrovert, forever ready to make a deal. Or so Sam hoped, now that he was about to entrust the man with his life.
“My apologies for taking so long to arrive,” Ali said. “But your father’s arrest necessitated stronger measures and more careful preparation. I thank you, Laleh, for keeping Mr. Keller safe in the meantime. I know that your father would thank you as well, even though he would blanch at the whole idea of your involvement.”
“Is he all right?” Laleh asked.
“All I have been able to find out is that he has been arrested. I know he is not being held at police headquarters, and he is not at the courthouse. That troubles me.”
It troubled Sam
, too. He hoped Sharaf didn’t become Daoud’s latest find.
“Let us go, then, before they find you as well,” Ali said. “I will drive you myself.”
“I’m coming, too,” Laleh announced.
“Really, my child, there is no need. And you know that your father would not permit it.”
“But my father is not here. And although you’re his friend, I am still acting on his behalf.”
Ali seemed genuinely affronted.
“Do you not trust me? Can you not do that on your father’s behalf as well?”
“Of course I trust you. But don’t you think it’s safer if more than one of us knows where Mr. Keller is being taken? What if something happens to you?”
Ali examined her carefully. He slowly shook his head, and with a measure of apparent affection said, “You are too much like your father. He, too, believes that everything will fall apart unless he is there to personally supervise. So on his behalf I will indulge you.”
“Where am I going?” Sam asked.
“We’re taking you off the grid. Not just Dubai’s. The world’s.”
Sam envisioned some Bedouin encampment deep in the dunes, a shadeless purgatory among goats and sand fleas.
“The desert?” he asked.
“What, to live with the Bedouin?” Ali laughed, a bit too heartily under the circumstances, Sam thought. “I would not even consider entrusting you to them. I could pay one of them to protect you, of course. But the moment another one learned you were being hidden he would turn you in for a bounty. And it is far easier to find one isolated man in all that emptiness than here in the city. Safety in numbers is better. You will be hiding among a hundred and fifty thousand people, at the Sonapur Labor Camp.”
Layover in Dubai Page 17
