Layover in Dubai

by Dan Fesperman

  Soon enough they would have the girl in hand, the stray named Basma who had eluded them for days. Then the muscle could go after Sharaf and his allies, whoever they might be. To succeed they needed to move carefully, deliberately, and she was the only one in the bunch with the necessary subtlety. But she still had to win the others over to her endgame. It was one reason she had insisted on this meeting, even at such a perilously belated moment.

  Assad would be the toughest sell. And it wasn’t just due to his geographic sense of entitlement, as the group’s only true local. The bigger problem was cultural. At some level he would always regard her as a refined form of harlot and deal with her accordingly. Typical attitude in the Gulf States, so why not turn it to her advantage? Because men who dealt with women only as whores could be enticed to buy almost anything—in this case, her leadership.

  It wasn’t just an Arab dynamic. She had even detected a hint of it in clever young Sam Keller, the human calculator. Granted, he had been exhausted at the time, but she recalled with wistful amusement the look on his face once she had finally maneuvered him onto the couch in her hotel room—the avid eagerness of a swimmer curling his toes at the edge of the pool, crouching for the dive. His erection had been unmistakable, and he hadn’t even tried to hide it. A symptom of his weariness, perhaps, because he had definitely been a smart one, and too curious by half. A worthy adversary.

  Even at that, she had nearly tracked him down, barely missing him after narrowing the hunt to a computer terminal in a camera store in the Sonapur labor camp. Judging from the reports Assad’s people brought back from the scene—wild tales of vengeful Bengalis, a dormitory scuffle, and a midnight abduction—Keller must have fallen in with the wrong people, and a day later he had washed up dead on the shores of Dubai Creek.

  Then the long-sought Basma had finally surfaced as well, by making a phone call to the police. Assad had played back the recording in his office to Liffey and her. Nanette’s Arabic was perfectly good, but Assad had insisted on translating anyway.

  Basma: Is this Lieutenant Assad, of vice investigations?

  Assad: Those are among my duties, yes.

  He sounded hurried, disinterested, even careless. Nanette wasn’t at all surprised.

  Basma: I have a crime to report.

  Assad: Then you should come down to CID, or contact our bureau of—

  Basma: A smuggling crime, involving fifty girls. It is going to happen later today, on a container ship at Jebel Ali.

  There was silence. Pages shuffled. It sounded as if Assad had shifted the receiver in his hand. All the signs of a man regrouping, reassessing. And Nanette understood why. The precision of Basma’s information was shocking, unnerving.

  Basma: Hello?

  Assad: Fifty, you say? You know the exact number and location?

  Basma: Yes, because I was also brought in this way, and managed to escape.

  More silence. She had clearly thrown him for a loop.

  Basma (timidly): Are you … still there?

  Assad: I am. I am listening. You have my complete attention, Miss … Did you say your name? I am going to need a name to do this properly, you know, because this is a very serious charge you are making.

  Basma: My name is Basma. I come from Iraq. That is all I can tell you until we meet.

  Assad: Of course, Basma. Yes. I assure you that I take this matter just as seriously as you do. And if what you are saying is true—and I have no reason to disbelieve you—then we will need to meet, and very soon.

  Good, Nanette thought. When push came to shove, Assad had followed her wishes to the letter.

  Basma: Yes.

  Assad: But not here. Not at the police station.

  His voice lowered to a whisper. It sounded like he was cupping his hand over the mouthpiece.

  It is not always such a secure location, my office. I am sorry to say that not everyone here can be trusted with your kind of information.

  Basma: Yes. All right, then.

  Assad: But I do know of places where we can meet. Safe locations where—

  Basma: No. I know of a place, too. It will have to be there.

  Assad: Well, perhaps. But time is short.

  Damn him, Nanette thought. He gave in far too easily on the location.

  Basma: Seven o’clock, then. Tonight.

  Assad: Tonight? But that is so late. If these girls are arriving today, then why—

  Basma: Seven o’clock. I will call you at six thirty with the address.

  Assad: Wait, now. Just wait. Why can’t you tell me now, or sometime sooner?

  Basma: I am frightened. I am not safe. How do I know I can trust you? Especially if only you and I are meeting?

  Assad: Don’t worry. I will make sure you are safe. And I will bring others who can also help you. Safety in numbers, okay? That way you don’t have to worry about trusting only me.

  Basma: What others? Other policemen?

  Assad: Better than that. Members of a … a special task force which … which only handles these sorts of cases. So you see? Already I have told you a very big secret. Already I am having to trust you before you must trust me. You will be in the very best hands. But can’t we meet a little sooner?

  Basma: Seven o’clock.

  Assad: Very well. Seven. But you must do one thing for me so that I will know I can trust you. Because now I am the one in danger. So if you cannot tell me the location until half an hour before our meeting, then I must ask that we arrive at the same time, both of us entering together, right at seven. That way I will know this is not some sort of ambush, or some trick you are playing on the police. Understood?

  Basma: I don’t know.

  The girl sounded flustered, as if she hadn’t counted on this twist. Nanette wondered if she had been trying to consult with someone else in the room with her.

  Assad: This is how it must be done, Basma. Understand? Seven o’clock at your location, that is fine, I agree. But no one arriving a second earlier, so that we will both be able to feel secure. Okay?

  Basma: I guess.

  Assad: You guess?

  Basma: Okay.

  Assad: Very good, then. I will speak with you again at six thirty. Correct?

  Basma: Correct.

  Assad: At this number?

  Basma: Yes.

  Assad: I will be waiting. And do not worry. You will be in safe hands from now on. I give you my personal assurance as an officer of the law.

  Basma: Thank you.

  Assad: Of course.

  “Don’t you find it suspicious that she phoned you?” Nanette asked.

  “If she had requested me by name, yes. But I checked afterward with the switchboard. All she asked for was the man in charge of vice, so they connected her to me. And now she will be playing right into our hands.”

  “You’re the one that’s being played, Assad, don’t you see? That’s why she didn’t tell you the meeting place. Waiting until the last minute is part of the setup.”

  He waved a hand dismissively.

  “She’s scared. She’s only being careful, just as you’d expect.”

  “Well, I’m not going to your damn meeting, I can tell you that.”

  “I arranged that for you! You said it was what you wanted!”

  “Only on my terms, not hers. Set foot in the door of whatever place she chooses and we’ll be history, all of us.”

  “You are being unreasonable, a silly and stubborn woman who only wants things her way!”

  “I am being prudent, Assad, but don’t fret. Not yet. You can still take charge of this situation, you know, in a way that will please everyone and will still take her off the board.”

  Assad snorted. He seemed in no mood to listen further. But at this point Nanette crossed her legs and turned slightly in her chair, offering a view in profile that she knew Assad liked best, for the tightness of her blouse and the way her long skirt hugged her hips, and, never to be discounted, for its sidelong view of the fullness of her auburn hair.

/>   It instantly made him receptive enough to at least hear out her idea, which, with Liffey’s persuasive assistance, he eventually accepted as their plan of action.

  And now, here she was, down to her finishing touches of eyeliner, mascara, and lipstick. In an hour they would set things in motion, and then she would convince the others to follow her remaining plans to the letter.

  Would women be hurt as a result? She loathed how that question kept popping up in her mind, because the answer, of course, was yes. But women were always hurt, weren’t they? Especially the ones without the brains or the guts to fend for themselves. Besides, what would really be more hurtful to a bunch of starving young rustics in Iraq—leaving them mired in the turmoil of war or removing them to the relative safety of steady hours and a steady income, even if they earned it on their backs? To her the answer was obvious. At least in Dubai they might have a future, a buyout, even advancement.

  She stood, popping her lips and appraising herself in the mirror from several angles. She saw competence, seduction, a hint of menace, and even a touch of Yankee common sense. A woman most any man would believe he could rely on, even as he angled for a quick fuck.

  Bring them on. Nanette Weaver was ready.

  28

  On a quiet residential street in Al Manara, Charlie Hatcher’s hour of reckoning was nigh.

  Mansour’s surveillance teams were in place—two men in front, two in back. Inside the empty villa, recorders were ready to roll. Dusk approached like a veil of sand.

  Two blocks away, Sharaf and Keller sat in Laleh’s BMW, taking turns with a pair of borrowed binoculars. Sharaf, cell phone open in his lap, checked the display for any last-minute messages. None. From a few streets over, the muezzin of a neighborhood mosque began droning the sundown call to prayer—a few minutes late, truth be told. It felt as if God was signaling that the drama was about to commence.

  “Shouldn’t you be praying?” Keller asked.

  “Now? I’d need to wash myself first. I’d have to get out of the car and put down a rug, kneeling and mumbling while Assad and his people came and went. Don’t you think that might be a little conspicuous?”

  “Sorry. Stupid question. I was just hoping for any kind of edge.”

  “You believe that God takes a hand in police matters?”

  “Not really. I guess I figured it might make you feel more confident.”

  “Do I not seem confident already?”

  “Not really. You haven’t all day. It’s like you know the whole thing is doomed.”

  “It is not a sense of doom, Mr. Keller. Just an abeyance of hope. My way of holding my breath until it is time to make our move. Then I will exhale.”

  Actually, he had been feeling doomed. The plan was a throw-together, a hasty improvisation. And what was worse, all of them knew it. But no one had come up with an alternative, and so momentum had carried the day. Ready or not, something was about to happen.

  So far, at least, there was reason for cautious optimism, especially after Laleh’s success in convincing Basma to participate. They had all listened together to the girl’s phone call, which Laleh had taped on Patel’s digital recorder.

  “She did well,” Sharaf remarked afterward. “Obviously you handled her perfectly.”

  Laleh seemed affronted by the idea she’d been manipulative. She frowned and folded her arms.

  “I don’t much like Assad’s idea for simultaneous arrival,” Sharaf said, “but I suppose there is no way around it. It will be best if Basma arrives by taxi.”

  “I’ll need to be with her when she departs, of course,” Laleh said.

  “Not necessary. You can just phone her with the information.”

  “The phone there isn’t secure. She was using my cell, and she will need it again to call Assad at six thirty. Then I will arrange the taxi and make sure she is safely on her way.”

  Sharaf didn’t like this wrinkle, but there seemed to be little choice. His daughter was the only one of them who knew Basma’s location. She had again painted him into a corner, which meant that her further involvement was indispensable.

  Laleh left the room without another word. She didn’t even glance at Sam, and the young man seemed crestfallen. Once she was gone, Sharaf was more candid about his concerns.

  “Stop worrying, Anwar,” Ali said. “Assad was planning this completely on the fly, even more than we are. We’ll have every advantage.”

  “Maybe so. But I’ve made a career of being underestimated. And I worry that now we are underestimating them.”

  “Relax. Mansour and I have every possibility covered.”

  Ali placed a reassuring hand on Sharaf’s back, then returned to the kitchen to continue preparations by telephone.

  “Mr. Keller,” Sharaf said, “I am afraid we will need your presence at our little affair.”

  “I wouldn’t miss it.”

  “My preference would be to keep you out of harm’s way. Killing you by proxy is bad enough. But it may be up to you and me to ensure that nothing happens to this poor girl, Basma. Laleh would never forgive me. Worse, she would never forgive herself.”

  “Won’t Mansour’s men be looking out for her?”

  “They will be preoccupied with springing the trap. The death of a young Iraqi with no passport, I am sorry to say, would be of little official consequence. So that will be our job, to move her to safety as quickly as possible. Do you know how to use a gun?”

  The question seemed to floor him.

  “I, uh, took a class once. Courtesy of Nanette, in fact. She ran a bunch of us through an executive survival course, with lessons on escape and evasion, that kind of thing. Part of it was firearms instruction.”

  “Ali has procured these for our use.”

  Sharaf took a bag off the kitchen table. No kebabs, this time. Just a pair of Beretta handguns. He handed one to Sam. Sturdy and compact. But heavy—that’s what never failed to surprise him about guns, no matter how often he handled them.

  “Careful, it’s loaded.”

  “I wasn’t a very good shot.”

  “But you will at least have the element of surprise. To them you will be a ghost. Sam Keller, risen from the dead.”

  “An avenging angel. Sounds good.”

  It made them smile, until Sam again hefted the gun and nearly dropped it in the process. And now they were in place, watching the street from Laleh’s BMW, waiting for the arrival of the last key players.

  The phone rang.

  “Sharaf.”

  “Anwar, I think it’s working.” It was Mansour.

  “You see them?”

  “Not yet. But the container ship, the Global Star, I’m told its arrival has been delayed. Engine trouble is the cover story. Not due until tomorrow now. They must already be resorting to contingency plans.”

  “Good. Basma’s phone call spooked them. Keep me posted if you see anything.”

  He hung up and told Sam the news.

  “If they’re that scared, do you think they’ll shoot her on sight?”

  It was the same thought that had occurred to Sharaf far too many times already. But he offered the same answer he had kept giving himself.

  “That would violate their own protocol. No, they won’t shoot her on sight, not as long as your Miss Weaver has her way, and she is still in town. Room 408 of the Shangri-La as of this morning. She will insist on a full debriefing, and that is what will make our case.”

  “If you say so.”

  Sharaf wished Sam hadn’t made that remark. Certainly the operation wasn’t foolproof—no operation was—but with their manpower and positioning it seemed as airtight as possible. Why, then, did the coffee from an hour earlier keep sluicing through his plumbing like acid, bubbling and grumbling? He checked the dashboard clock. 6:50.

  “Here comes Assad!” Sam said. “Police van, far end of the block.”

  “He’s early, but that’s hardly a surprise. Once Basma called with the location he must have left right away.”

&
nbsp; They watched the van slide into a curbside spot directly in front of the villa. Sam still held the binoculars.

  “Is anyone with him?” Sharaf asked.

  “Yes. There’s a driver and a passenger up front. I’m assuming one of them is Assad. Hard to tell through the smoked glass.”

  Sharaf looked back over his shoulder, then again peered down the block toward the villa. No further traffic was in sight.

  “Where are the others?” he asked.

  “Back of the van, maybe?”

  “Hard to imagine the Tsar and Hedayat agreeing to be hauled around like a sack of dates, or even your Miss Weaver.”

  “Maybe they’re coming later, after Assad gives the all clear.”

  “Maybe.”

  Or maybe Sharaf was trying to convince himself that things were still going according to plan. The coffee now felt like it was on the verge of rushing back up his esophagus.

  Nothing more happened for the next six minutes. The van simply sat there, while Sharaf watched the digital display of the dashboard clock as closely as if it were linked to the workings of the cosmos. No sooner had it switched to 6:56 than a taxi came up from behind them, headed toward the villa. A woman in a black abaya sat in the back.

  “It’s Basma,” Sam said. “Here we go.”

  “Give me those,” Sharaf said, fumbling for the binoculars with sweaty palms. The neck strap got caught on Sam’s ears before Sharaf pulled it free. He adjusted the focus and tracked the taxi to the curb. He could make out Basma’s form through the back window as she hunched forward to pay the driver.

  “Merciful God. I hope Laleh gave her enough dirhams for the fare.”

  The door opened. Basma stepped out. Sharaf watched through the binoculars as she looked around uncertainly. Something was wrong, he thought. Terribly wrong. But he wasn’t sure what until he noticed Basma’s spiked heels. Red. Stylish. The very pair that he hated most. Then he noted the polished gait of her walk as she started off down the sidewalk, like that of a confident young businesswoman.