Layover in Dubai

by Dan Fesperman

  “I saw then that he was carrying something, one of those small folding shovels like the British soldiers used to have. He must have picked it up surplus, or maybe he stole it off one of their trucks. But he began to dig, right there by the light of the moon, and in only a minute or two he struck something. It sounded like metal hitting a clay pot, and at that moment I knew what he was doing, and what he had found, and I was scandalized.”

  “What was it?” Laleh said.

  Sam, just as eager to find out, leaned forward from the backseat.

  “Well, in those days, especially if you made your money from pearling, no one ever put their money into banks. You collected your savings in old silver coins called Maria Theresas. You’d put them into a big clay pot, stopper the top, and bury it somewhere handy, in a secret place that only you knew. And this pot my father had dug up must have belonged to Uncle Abdullah, because I had heard his wife at the funeral only days earlier, complaining to the other women that her husband had died before telling anyone where their fortune was buried. It wasn’t an uncommon occurrence then, especially when men were lost at sea. Their families were left with nothing unless someone could find the pot. But apparently my father, whether by sneaking around, or threats, or whatever means, had known the location all along. And he had waited until the first full moon to go and dig it up.

  “There must have been a lot of coins, because the pot was very heavy. He could barely carry it, especially with the little shovel tucked beneath his arm. But he made it home without anyone seeing him, and when he reached our garden he dumped the contents into a sack. He broke the pot into little pieces and took them out to the creek, where he scattered them on the water. Then he made a fire and put the coins into a cooking pot with water and dried lemons. People did that to remove the tarnish, because the dampness underground always made the coins turn green.

  “The following week my father bought three new boats to add to the one small pearling boat he already owned. Then he bought new engines for all four. That summer he needed so many new crewmen that he had to put me to work, and he hired the two older boys who became my friends, Ali and Mansour. Two of the new boats were even seaworthy enough to make the crossing to India, so he was also able to enter the gold-smuggling trade as well, once the pearling season was over. It made his fortune. And of course his wealth was then passed down to me, and, in turn, to you and your brothers. All of it accomplished by an act of theft against his own brother’s family.

  “He took care of them in his way, buying them things from time to time, and making sure they were never wanting for necessities. And of course he let them think of him as a kind and magnanimous man. But I always knew the truth, and always hated him for it. And that is when I decided that I would do something in my life—as a lawyer, a policeman, whatever the world offered—to make sure that people like him would always be found out and punished.”

  “Is that all?” Laleh asked, as if expecting some further revelation.

  “What do you mean, ‘Is that all?’ Is that not enough?”

  “Well, yes, it’s terrible. Inexcusable. But it was your father, not you.”

  “It was a matter of our family’s honor, Laleh. Or its utter dishonor. Maybe some of those grasping people you work with would simply see it as the clever act of an opportunist, so why not make the best of it? But he stole from his own flesh and blood. It was a shame upon all of us, and by keeping his secret I became a part of that. With every tutor his money bought, I was tainted even more.”

  “Your father’s right,” Sam said before he could stop himself. “I understand completely.”

  Sam also understood that the age-old conflict between the values of the old and the young was playing out on the seat in front of him, here in a land where the new got newer by the minute. Not that Laleh wasn’t appalled by her grandfather’s actions. She simply didn’t see it as a binding stain upon later generations, or even her father. And while Sharaf had undoubtedly spoken too harshly of the people she worked among in Media City, she probably had grown a bit jaded from the ambition so often on display in the workplace. Sam certainly had, even if he had realized that only during the past few days.

  Laleh was silent for a few moments more. Then she nodded.

  “All right, then,” she said. “I understand why you have to continue. I also understand—finally—why you built our cousins a house on the family lot, so maybe you should tell Mom as well. But if, as you believe, our entire family shares this shame, then shouldn’t I also share the burden of removing it, if only by driving you to your next destination, maybe? Or making inquiries in places where you or Mr. Keller would be recognized?”

  Sharaf rapidly shook his head.

  “You see?” he said to Sam. “This is the folly of revealing family secrets, even to those you love. Now she will always have a wedge to involve herself. And she—”

  The phone rang before he could say more, and when Sharaf saw the number he answered immediately. The conversation was in Arabic, but Sam could tell from the tone that it was welcome news. By the time Sharaf hung up, his mood was transformed.

  “Laleh, I have a bargain to offer you.” He snapped the phone shut. “If I were to tell you that I know how to guarantee Mr. Keller’s safety for the rest of his stay in Dubai, and that you could even play a role in this action, would you agree to let me take the wheel?”

  She tilted her head, as if trying to determine if this was a trick.

  “All right. I’ll agree to that.”

  “Good. In forty minutes, my old friend Mansour from the Maritime Police will be stopping by our house. I will drop you off a few blocks away so that you can be there to meet him, because I cannot afford to be seen there myself. If you then follow my instructions, by this evening he will be able to announce to the world that Mr. Keller here has been found dead in the waters of Dubai Creek. Mansour will even have a body to prove it, complete with Mr. Keller’s clothing and all the proper identification.”

  “But—”

  “Just say that you agree.”

  “I agree.”

  Sam was dumbfounded. Then his auditor’s brain began to assemble the pieces, and he smiled as they fell into place. Death, he decided, was going to be a pretty good thing.

  21

  “So that’s why you were soaking my clothes in a tub,” Sam said, after they dropped Laleh off. “And I’m guessing the tub is filled with, what, salt water?”

  “Very good. But how did you know about the tub?”

  “I saw it when Assad’s men came for me. I was out back looking for my wallet and spotted it through the window of the shed. But won’t you also need a body?”

  “Mansour has one. It was found this morning. Some poor drunken unidentified tourist who fell off an abra into the creek five days ago. He was apparently traveling alone, with no friends and no next of kin. And now, as far as the government of Dubai is concerned, he is Sam Keller. I saw an item about him in the paper the first morning you were at our house. His body was still missing then. Witnesses had seen him slip into the water, but no one knew him and no one had come forward to report him missing. That’s when I took your clothes, pulled out the tub, and phoned Mansour.”

  “And he agreed?”

  “Spending a year together dodging sharks and the Indian coast guard tends to make you allies for life, just as with Ali. I knew Mansour would have jurisdiction whenever the creek finally decided to give back that poor fellow’s body.”

  Sam shook his head, amazed by the audacity.

  “It is called wasta, Mr. Keller, and it is how we do things here. I suppose to you it looks like corruption. To us it is a marketplace of favors and connections. Are things really so different in your world?”

  “It’s just that, well, it sounds like something your father might have dreamed up. No disrespect intended.”

  “None taken. I am quite aware of my inborn tendency for deviousness. That is why I am so committed to employing it for the greater good.”

&nbs
p; “I’m not complaining. So what will they do, dress the body in my clothes?”

  “I am sure it is too bloated and nibbled for that.” Sam winced. “Mansour’s men will throw away the real clothes and put yours in the property bag, along with your soggy passport and wallet.”

  “What about dental records?”

  “That will not be a concern until the American consulate ships the body home, which won’t happen for days, maybe weeks.”

  “Hal Liffey will be the first one to see the paperwork. He and Nanette will probably have a drink to celebrate.”

  “You are the one who should celebrate. No more looking over your shoulder for a Russian with a Makarov. Which is more than I can say for the poor man we’re about to visit. Rajpal Patel, the doorman from the Palace Hotel. He is hiding in Deira, on the far side of the creek.”

  “Then shouldn’t we be heading south, to cross the bridge?”

  Sharaf shook his head.

  “By now Lieutenant Assad’s men may be looking for this car as well. We’ll park in the old quarter of Bastakiya, and make the crossing by abra.”

  “Just like the dead tourist.”

  “Only with better results, I hope.”

  The waterfront in Bastakiya, the oldest part of the city, swarmed with activity, making it the perfect place to blend in with the crowd. Abras came and went from the docks like a procession of airport taxis, jostling to and fro in the cloudy green chop as their big diesel engines popped and grumbled like Harleys. They were low-slung, narrow craft, built of thick wooden beams the size and color of railroad ties. Passengers sat on a two-sided bench that ran down the spine of the open deck, facing outward, ten to a side. You paid the mate a dirham and stepped aboard the rocking deck. As soon as every seat was filled, the skipper revved the engine in a billow of blue smoke and pulled away, bumping the scuffed hulls of other abras until he reached open water.

  Sam made a move to hop aboard the newest arrival, but Sharaf put out a hand.

  “I am looking for someone,” he said. “Patience.”

  Three boats later, Sharaf muttered, “Okay,” and they climbed aboard. This boat didn’t look any different from the others, but the skipper nodded toward Sharaf as they eased into the channel. Glancing around him, Sam realized the obvious advantage of this form of transport. You got a good long look at every fellow passenger, meaning no one could follow without being noticed. It was clear that no Russians were aboard.

  The abra headed downstream with the incoming tide, taking them alongside the bigger dhows that still carried spices and textiles across the gulf from Iran. They, too, had timbered hulls, with jutting bowsprits and flush transoms that lent a piratical air. Despite the new high-rises lining much of the opposite shore, it wasn’t hard to imagine how the creek must have looked when Sharaf was a boy, barefoot and wiry. These waters ran straight from his heart, a key to everything about him, and Sam watched the man closely as they made the crossing.

  When they reached the busy wharf in Deira, Sharaf again held out his arm in abeyance as the other passengers stepped ashore. The skipper nodded, and steered the abra back into the current. A few minutes later they pulled alongside a separate wharf that wasn’t part of the usual taxi service.

  “Thank you, my friend,” Sharaf said as he and Sam climbed ashore. The captain merely revved his engine in reply, and headed upstream for a new load of return passengers.

  “More wasta?” Sam asked.

  “I have known his family since I was a child. He knows that in my work I prefer privacy.”

  “What does he get in return?”

  “Please, Mr. Keller. You cannot be privy to all my secrets.”

  The moment they began walking, Sharaf stopped suddenly and grabbed Sam. He swayed for an instant like a stout palm in a stiff breeze.

  “You all right?”

  “A little dizzy. A little nauseous. I think it was the motion of the water, plus the lump on my head. I am fine now.”

  “Maybe it would feel better with a little halothane. We’ll be just great if anyone comes after us.”

  They moved at a deliberate pace to accommodate Sharaf’s wooziness, and found the address above a sagging jewelry store in a narrow cobbled alley, not far from Deira’s Gold Souk. Being with Sharaf helped ward off the vendors who had swarmed him during his shopping trip the week before. Or maybe being unshaven and ridiculously attired made him look too impoverished to bother with.

  They climbed a dim, fetid stairwell to an unmarked steel door. Sam was reminded anew that he hadn’t shaved or showered in several days, which made it all the more amazing that Laleh had kissed him.

  “Pay attention,” Sharaf said. “You look like you’re in one of those halothane dreams. This man may try to run when we announce ourselves. You need to be ready to move quickly.”

  They knocked twice before a girl’s voice timidly called out in Hindi. Sharaf answered in kind. There was a click as she unlatched the lock. When she drew back the door, Sharaf jammed his foot in the opening and said in English, “We come as friends. We are here to see Rajpal Patel.”

  There was an immediate flurry of activity from inside—raised voices, the sound of a toppling chair, the groan of a window sash being raised. Sharaf, dizzy or not, burst inside, knocking the girl onto her rump. Sam followed him to a back room, where Sharaf grabbed a man’s legs just as they were about to disappear over the windowsill. Two young boys ran to the fellow’s rescue and began pounding Sharaf on the back with tiny fists. Sam tried to peel them away, only to have a third one race forward to swat his ankles with a broomstick. The girl screamed, loud enough for neighbors to hear. But Sharaf was winning his game of tug-of-war, and within seconds the squirming Patel fell back through the window as everyone collapsed in a heap on the floor.

  “Please!” Sharaf shouted. He closed his eyes and put a hand to his forehead, as if to stop it from spinning. “We are here as friends of Khalifa, the owner of your family’s shop. We are the enemy of your enemies, Mr. Patel!”

  Patel, flat on his back, raised his hands in submission, which instantly calmed his corps of underage reinforcements.

  “I was worried you were the police,” he said, eyeing Sharaf warily. He didn’t seem sure what to make of Sam. “Do you really know Khalifa?”

  “I met him in the Central Jail. I was released only this morning, and with any luck they will release him as well, along with Nabil. Don’t worry, Khalifa has kept your secret from the authorities. But he gave me your address because he knows I can help.”

  “And who are you?”

  “Someone who is investigating the policemen. This man with me is a friend of Mr. Hatcher’s, the American who came to see you at the Palace Hotel. They were there together the other night, not long before Mr. Hatcher was killed.”

  Patel’s eyes widened. He scrambled to his feet, as if ready to again bolt out the window.

  “Mr. Hatcher was killed?”

  “I am afraid so.”

  This set off a round of eye rolling and a few curses in Hindi. Patel brusquely ordered the children to leave the room, and gestured toward a sagging bed while he stood by the open window. Sharaf and Sam reluctantly took a seat.

  “How do I know you are not here to kill me?”

  “If that were true, Mr. Patel, you would be dead by now.”

  “Then who killed Mr. Hatcher?”

  “A couple of Russians. And now those Russians are dead. We can only make the killings stop if you tell us why Mr. Hatcher paid you that night in the lobby.”

  Patel looked again at Sam, and the light of recognition dawned in his eyes.

  “I remember you now. You were by the front desk, watching us. He said not to worry, that you were harmless.”

  “A little too harmless,” Sam answered, “or I could have helped him. He gave you money, then he wrote something down. What was it you told him?”

  Patel bit his lip, as if debating how much to reveal.

  “I told him what was coming on April fourteenth
, this Monday.”

  “We would like you to tell us as well,” Sharaf said. “Provided you still remember.”

  “Of course, I remember. I had worked very hard to memorize it. I have a head for numbers, you see, so I am able to do such things.”

  Patel then tilted his head as if searching his memory. His next words emerged in a monotone, like a student reciting important dates in history.

  “Payload of fifty, I-M-O, nine-zero-one-six-seven-four-two. Jebel Ali terminal two, gate six, lot seventeen, row four.”

  The recitation complete, Patel looked back at their faces.

  “That is all. That is what I told him.”

  “Of course,” Sharaf said. “An IMO number. They’re assigned to container ships.”

  “And this one’s arriving Monday at Jebel Ali,” Sam said, “with a payload of fifty.”

  Finally, Charlie’s scribbled numbers and letters made perfect sense. No code at all. Just a lot of shipping information in abbreviated form.

  “But fifty what?” Sam asked. “Tons? Kilos? Weapons?”

  “Women,” Sharaf said. “For the flesh trade. Their new pipeline, now that the airport’s under a crackdown.”

  “In ship containers?”

  “Someone smuggled in a few boys that way for use as camel jockeys last year, back when the government was shutting down that trade. Maybe that’s where they got the idea. The other numbers must be where the containers will be stored after unloading. In some freight lot at terminal two.”

  Sharaf turned back toward Patel.

  “Thank you, Mr. Patel. But where did that information come from?”

  “From the recording.”

  “What kind of recording?”

  “The tape. Of those people who met in the Kasbar a month ago. I can explain, if you wish.”

  “Oh, yes. We wish.”