Smoke and Mirrors (The Acer Sansom Novels Book 3)

by Oliver Tidy

  A little clock on the skipper’s cabin wall said ten-thirty. It might have been right. Acer added the dozen or so hours for the crossing and got mid-morning. He looked at mother and daughter on the narrow, grubby bed and envied them their comfort. With a spirit-sapping realisation, he accepted that it was going to be a very long night. But at least their progress was creating a keen, salty breeze through the little window to freshen the air.

  ***

  27

  The first thing Acer thought when he awoke with the sun on his face was how on earth had he managed to sleep. He’d suffered an hour of backache and a sore backside on the floor of the cabin before telling Niki he was going to look for something more comfortable – in the open air if he had to – whether anyone liked it or not. The look on his face did not incline her to argue with him. The thought had occurred to him as he was stumbling about in the darkness topside, tripping over things, that she probably wouldn’t have lost much sleep if he’d gone overboard.

  He found a folded tarpaulin a foot thick that was almost as long as he was tall. Despite it stinking of new plastic and not being designed for encouraging sleep, he was able to lie out on it in some degree of comfort. Being on deck was just better. The air was fresher too. He lay on his back and stared up at the stars, trying to pick out constellations he knew.

  He used a float for a pillow and when his mind had had enough of toying with the possibilities of the next day, he let the sea’s swell and the gentle beating of the engine send him off to a light sleep. He woke several times before finally succumbing to his tiredness and the motion of the vessel.

  Sitting up and looking over the side, he was confronted with a view to boost his morale. Bright sunshine reflected back off a calm sea, boats everywhere he looked – long, short, tall, fat, wooden, metal, fibreglass, small, enormous – and going in all directions. A massive tanker flying the Dutch flag showed its stern to them as it ploughed a salt-water furrow. As Acer stared after it, the wake of its progress caught up with the little wooden boat to lift it high in the water and then down again in the trough, like an empty plastic bottle. A little bit of salt spray flecked Acer’s face. He licked it off his lips with relish.

  In front of them the coast of Dubai loomed. It was a stark contrast to what he had seen of even the most modern districts of Tehran: huge fingers of metal and glass pointing to the now-invisible stars. The low sun caught some of the glass panels and the light was flashed back across the water almost as though the city were signalling them.

  He stood and stretched out his aches. Niki was standing on the prow of the boat alone. She had removed her headscarf and her long, dark hair was loosened to skip and buck in the breeze behind her. He picked his way over and around the boxes and crates to stand beside her.

  ‘Good morning.’

  She did not turn to face him. Her gaze remained fixed on the city in front of them. ‘I told you there was nothing to worry about.’

  ‘I know. You were right.’

  ‘These boats have being plying their trade across these waters for decades. It takes more than America, the UN and bad weather to interfere with desperate people trying to make a living.’

  ‘Was it ever thus?’ said Acer.

  She looked at him then, briefly, before turning back to their destination.

  ‘How are the others?’ said Acer

  ‘The woman seems tired. The girl was sick in the night.’

  ‘Motion sickness?’

  Niki shrugged and it spoke volumes for the emotional detachment she felt for them.

  ‘Where does the boat go?’

  ‘Where they all go – Dubai Creek. It’s a tradition they won’t change. Only the goods have changed. Once upon a time it was all spices and cloth and food, today it’s car parts, plasma televisions and computer parts.’

  ‘And other things the authorities don’t want to know about – weapons, drugs, people?’

  ‘They boast that there is nothing they can’t get across. Some see it as a challenge to flout the sanctions. And the more dangerous the cargo the more money they can make. But there are some things that most of them won’t even consider taking. The punishments are too harsh.’

  ‘Where do we fit into that scale?’

  ‘The captain and crew are risking their liberty, their boat and their livelihoods taking us.’

  ‘But they’re being paid well for it?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. We shouldn’t endanger them any more than we are just by being here, or abuse their trust.’

  Acer reflected that in the few days since he’d met Niki this was by far the longest conversation they’d had. And they weren’t arguing or threatening or insulting each other. It was something pleasant to be passing the time of day on the prow of a dhow cutting across lanes, wakes and sea traffic of one of the most contested stretches of salt-water in the world. Perhaps Niki sensed this too for her features tightened up almost as though she realised her guard was down and it displeased her.

  Not wishing to spoil the moment, he said, ‘I’m going to check below.’

  She didn’t answer him or alter her position.

  He stumbled back over the tightly packed cargo in the heavy swell of another boat’s wake. He caught the eye of the skipper at the wheel and was rewarded by a flash of white teeth against his brown hide and a thumbs up. Acer smiled back, returned the gesture and disappeared downstairs.

  Dominique was still asleep. Her arm lay carelessly across her daughter’s chest. Zoe was awake. Her clear, blue eyes tracked Acer as he came into the little cabin. He smiled and mouthed hello.

  Nothing.

  Perhaps sensing a change in the room’s dynamics, Dominique opened her eyes. She blinked away the glare of the morning. ‘What time is it?’

  He looked at the clock. ‘Sevenish.’

  ‘I can’t believe I actually slept,’ she said, sitting up. ‘The noise and that swell.’ She remembered something then. ‘How are you this morning?’ she said, turning to her daughter. ‘She was sick last night.’

  ‘So I heard.’

  ‘Where did you go to?’

  ‘On deck. I found somewhere to lie down.’

  ‘You slept?’

  ‘A little. You can see Dubai. We’ll be there in a few hours.’

  Dominique closed her eyes and it was almost as though she were offering silent thanks to someone, or something, for delivering them safely. Niki came down to tell them they shouldn’t go outside because of their nearness to the coast.

  ‘We should breakfast,’ said Acer. ‘Eat the food the old woman sent with us.’

  They organised it in the cabin. There was far too much for just the three and a half of them and so Niki took what they wouldn’t eat to share with the crew of the boat. She returned with a tray of teas.

  They watched from the little cabin’s window as the coast came into focus. The skipper timed his entry into the mouth of Dubai Creek to coincide with the arrival of two other craft, one another old wooden boat, like them loaded and low in the water, the other a more remarkable sailing ship. Acer’s gaze lingered on this with a mixture of envy and melancholy in equal measure.

  If their skipper’s idea had been to chug largely unnoticed into the narrow natural inlet that cut up into the city as the tall rigged ship took all the attention it was a good one.

  They followed the ship at a respectful distance into the creek, up around the first left hand bend, and while the larger, more impressive vessel continued its stately way on up the channel the skipper turned the little anonymous boat into the wharf to shoulder its way into and nestle among the other similar craft vying for berths and the attention of the men there to load and unload.

  The calls and noise of the dozens of men who eked out a living in the quayside business of dhows as they hurried about was a comforting, seemingly good-natured din.

  The skipper came below smiling. He had a quick fire exchange with Niki and left.

  ‘He says we should wait a while. There are officials on
the wharf. No need to complicate matters by risking their involvement. It would become expensive and possibly awkward.’

  ‘How long?’ said Acer.

  ‘He didn’t say.’

  ‘Do you know where we are? Exactly?’

  ‘Yes. We are in the district of Deira. The British Embassy is on the other side of the Creek. Not far from where we are now.’

  He was looking out of the small window. ‘Is that a proper road next to the wharf?’

  ‘Yes. When the time is right we leave the boat, get onto the road and hail a taxi.’

  He shook his head. ‘Amazing. How easy it is to get into this country.’

  With her customary curtness, Niki said, ‘That is not much use if you have nothing to come for, no job, no money, no status, no one.’

  ***

  28

  The air in the little cabin warmed up until it was like sitting in a sauna. And there was nothing they could do about it. The small window was as open as it could be but all it brought was more hot air and the sounds and smells of the wharf. Bottled water was brought with news that they must continue to wait. The perspiration ran freely down their backs and faces, and their clothes became patched with it. There was not a hint of a breeze and the humidity was stifling and energy-sapping. Even talking was too much effort.

  The third time the skipper thudded down the few thin stairs to his quarters was with news they should prepare themselves for flight. Despite the draining quality of their waiting, the energising effect on the adults was obvious.

  When the skipper left, Niki said, ‘Three bangs on the roof and we’re leaving. As soon as we get off the boat there is a ramp to the road. There will be a taxi waiting for us.’ To underline her state of readiness, she shrugged on her backpack.

  The minutes dragged themselves around the little clock in an agonising crawl. Acer felt his heart working and guessed it must be the same for the others. Dominique suggested simply giving themselves up to whichever authority was patrolling the wharf and seeking assistance through official channels. But this idea was soon rejected. Niki disabused them of any notion they might have that being detained in Dubai would be anything other than disastrous for all of them. Dubai police, she told them, were violent, intolerant and regularly singled out by international organisations concerned with such things as blatant abusers of human rights. Besides, none of them wanted the publicity or attention of third and fourth parties with all that could bring, and Niki, being an Iranian national who had entered the country illegally, might soon find herself on the first boat back with a welcoming committee after a good beating.

  Three loud thumps made two of them start. They were on their feet and moving quickly. Zoe was suffering with the effects of her seasickness and the heat on top of her already fragile physical state. Acer hoisted her up and carried her.

  Most of the dhow’s boxes had been cleared from the front deck. They were piled up on the concrete apron of the wharf. In both directions the wharf was cluttered with goods and sacks and drums and boxes and crates of all shapes and sizes. Dark-skinned men, their clothes and skin damp with sweat, worked and called and averted their eyes. The scene reminded Acer of a UN emergency mission delivering assistance after a natural disaster in some far-flung corner of the world.

  One of the crew was beckoning to them from the road. He held open a taxi door. They went up the ramp quickly. Niki took the front seat and the British occupied the rear. The door was shut and the car sped away. Cabin to car had taken less than two minutes.

  They delayed their congratulations for each other. Although it seemed unlikely they would be followed, Acer could not resist the opportunity to be sure. He stared out of the back window as the vehicle turned left and right in line with Niki’s instructions.

  They had decided to take the taxi straight to the British Embassy on the other side of the channel. The driver took them along the main highway and under Al Maktoum Bridge – one of the three that spanned the Creek. There was no access road for it from their approach. Just under another kilometre and they were able to branch right to join the Floating Bridge crossing. The Creek was narrower here – a little over two hundred metres across.

  They were quickly over and doubling back on the opposite side of the waterway to where their dhow was moored. They were forced to detour inland to round some high-end Dubai real estate before rejoining the road, which ran along the water’s edge and would soon deliver them to the gates of the British Embassy. Acer shared a look with Dominique that said nearly there.

  The land to their left seemed earmarked for development – flattened and cleared, empty and dead, strewn with rubbish and demolition debris. Huge hoardings with images of how the finished project would look lined up for the attention of wealthy investors looking to buy off plan and make a profit on the resale. As they passed a large stretch of this open ground the driver, his attention taken by something in his rear view mirror, began to slow. He said something that made Niki turn to stare out of the back window. Seeing the look on her face, Acer and Dominique quickly did the same. Behind them an unmarked saloon car was close behind and flashing its lights.

  ***

  29

  Niki said something to the driver. He pulled in at the kerb.

  ‘What’s happening?’ said Acer. ‘Tell him to keep going.’

  ‘I did. He won’t.’

  Acer exchanged a look with Dominique and then turned his attention back to the vehicle behind them. Two men in suits got out. Both looked fit and young. They wore casual sunglasses and serious expressions. They didn’t look like they were going to ask for directions. Acer felt his blood surge.

  ‘Who are they?’ he said.

  ‘How do I know?’ said Niki.

  One of the men came to the driver’s window and held up identification. The other stood off to one side. The first man looked into the back of the car, spoke and took a step back. The driver opened his door and got out. The man waited.

  ‘What’s happening?’ said Acer.

  ‘He wants everyone out.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He didn’t say.’

  The man raised his voice.

  ‘We’d better get out, hadn’t we?’ said Acer.

  He opened his door and did that. He heard Dominique doing the same from the other side of the vehicle. And then Niki.

  When Niki came around the front of the car she was holding a gun at her side. Acer recognised the lines of the semi-automatic handgun and his skin broke out in a cold rash of fear. Before he could protest, she had it pointed at the man giving the orders. She issued clipped commands. The men didn’t move. Niki fired a shot into the air. Birds were startled into flight from their roosts in nearby trees but there was no one else around to hear it and no other traffic on the short cut. The men quickly got down on the ground. If the production of a weapon had not been the tipping point the use of it was.

  Niki moved quickly. Acer, Dominique, Zoe and the taxi driver stood, like stone imitations of themselves, staring powerlessly as she removed the men’s guns, phones and their wallets. Everything she took from them she tossed to Acer, who had little choice but to catch them. She barked something to the taxi driver. He opened the boot of his car. She encouraged the men to their feet and in. They made no attempt to argue with her, to take her, or to resist her instructions. They had been sloppy – they should have had their guns out at least – and it would cost them.

  ‘Get in the car,’ said Niki, pointing at the one that had brought the two men

  No one moved.

  ‘Niki, this is crazy,’ said Acer. ‘Who are they?’

  ‘Did you hear me? I said get in their car.’

  No one moved. Niki fired four times into the boot of the taxi. The reports echoed around the dead ground.

  Beside Acer, Dominique drew a quick audible breath and pulled Zoe to her.

  Time stopped.

  Acer saw his future if he stayed where he was. He saw arrest, imprisonment, trial and the death penalt
y. He saw his chance of being reunited with his daughter and enjoying the rest of his life snuffed out. He saw Dominique rotting in a Dubai prison, possibly going mad as her daughter was stuck into another institution to suffer the fate she was not responsible for. And for him, the survivor, the soldier, the risk-taker who’d learned the hard way there was no decision to make.

  He physically moved mother and daughter towards the vehicle. He opened the rear door and shoved them in, slamming it shut. He threw the wallets, phones and pistols into the front passenger foot well.

  Niki shouted across, ‘Keys?’

  He looked. ‘Yes. Don’t hurt the driver.’

  Niki pointed the gun at him and gave him a chance. He needed no further encouragement. He ran as fast as his fat little legs would carry him. After a quick look around, she hurried to the car and got in the front passenger seat.

  ‘You drive,’ she said.

  He got in and shut the door, not knowing what to do for the best.

  ‘Come on, get going,’ she said, and her panic and urgency were infectious.

  He started the engine but didn’t move. He wanted to rage at her for her stupidity, for what she’d cost them, the impossible position she’d landed them all in, but it was tempered by not knowing why she’d done it, and with dealing with the reality of their new situation. ‘We can’t go to the embassy now,’ he said. ‘They’d have to hand us over. That would be it. We might never get home.’ He engaged first gear and drove. To Dominique, he said, ‘I can still let you and Zoe out at the British Embassy. This is nothing to do with you. They’ll look after you.’