Date with a Sheesha (29 page)

I took the opportunity to look around. Despite the lateness of the hour, there certainly seemed to be a great number of people, all Middle Eastern men, milling about throughout the enclosure.

Was this all because of us? Because of the Zinko deal about to go down? Or was this like any other tourist joint, with staff getting ready for tomorrow’s onslaught of day trippers looking for an authentic Arabian experience? Wash down the camels. Refill the turmeric shakers. That sort of thing?

I was more concerned about Nadidah. Where was he? I hoped Saffron had gone to fetch him. I fought the temptation to go looking for both of them, or at least do some poking around. I didn’t want to be rude. The men had been generous in making us comfortable. The hospitality of the Bedouin is legendary and should never be turned down. But I was a detective here, not a true guest.

I could only take so much sitting around.

Alastair took another drag, tipped the mouthpiece back on itself, and handed it to Sereena. She tapped the back of his hand and accepted it.

“Off to spend a penny,” Alastair said, rising to his gangly heights, reminding me of Rosie. “Either of you spot a loo on the way in?”

We hadn’t.

“All right then. I guess I’ll go do a little investigating of my own.”

I hoped he meant that only in terms of finding a bathroom.

As soon as he was gone, “Do you trust him?” were the first words out of Sereena’s mouth. She said it in a way that made it impossible for me to tell what her own opinion was.

I accepted her offer of a toot off the sheesha, then told her:

“You know me. I trust everyone involved in a case…once it’s over.”

“Wise policy.” She selected a date from the platter and fed it to me. She appeared to be considering another, when out of the blue she said: “I like this place. Charming ambiance. Something like this would be an interesting choice for a wedding reception.”

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Like the Arabians’, at times, the words that came out of Sereena’s mouth needed careful translation. I started to respond, stopped, thought better of it, then tried again. “Are…are you planning on getting married?”

I hadn’t even known she’d been dating anyone. Sereena had been married a few dozen times in her earlier days—okay that’s a bit of an exaggeration, but not much—and I’d simply concluded she was done with husbands.

“Not at the moment,” she said. “I was thinking more about your preferences. Would you like a themed wedding reception?

We could do it, you know. Did you know that the most northerly sand dunes in the world are located right in Saskatchewan? In Athabasca Sand Dunes Provincial Park. We could set up a tent and—”

“What are you talking about? I’m not getting married.”

She gave me one of her extremely rare smiles, most of it in her eyes.

“You think I should get married?”

No response.

We sat in silence, staring at one another. My mind was spin-ning. Just thinking about Ethan in this way made my heart suddenly swell. I didn’t need Sereena to tell me any of this. I knew. I knew. I knew. I knew in my supersized heart, that above anything else, I wanted to make Ethan Ash my husband. I wanted to have a life with him. I suddenly felt so sure, so ecstatically happy, it was all I could do to keep from jumping on Rosie the camel and galloping all the way home, to get down on one knee, proclaim my love to that man, and propose.

Instead, Alastair was back. The news wasn’t so good.

He folded his knees and crumpled down beside us, his normally jovial features displaying something close to panic.

“Something is wrong.” His whisper was hushed and insistent. His eyes danced a jerky waltz in the darkness shrouding the camp.

“Where were you?” I asked. “What’s happened?”

“After I had a wee, I went outside. The reception was better there.”

“Reception?”

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“My phone.” He shook his cellphone in my face to demonstrate. “I called the hotel. I wanted to check on darling Hema.

She’s disappeared, Russell.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Hema is gone,” he hissed. “I called her hotel room. There was no answer.”

“That doesn’t mean a thing,” Sereena said. “She could be in the bath, or screening her calls, or asleep. You do know what time it is, don’t you?”

“No, that’s not it. After I couldn’t get through, I called Semir’s cell…I asked for his number before leaving him with Hema in the souk. He told me he lost her. Lost her, Russell!”

I bit my lip. Did Semir lose her? Or did she give him the slip?

Or had someone taken her? The possibilities were many. None good.

“This is Quant.” Saffron’s prematurely old voice crawled over us like a net made of spiders.

We looked up. The boy was standing next to a venerable-looking man. He was wearing the standard shirt and headdress, but somehow made the outfit look regal rather than utilitarian. We all stood to greet the newcomer.

“I am Nadidah,” he told us.

The Bedouin.

“This is your proper name?” he asked.

“I’m Russell Quant,” I told him.

“Ah, Mr. Russell.” He shot Saffron a brief, scolding scowl, then turned back on me. “You’ll forgive me, but I am uncertain why it is that you are here.”

Oh, so we were gonna play it that way, huh? “Well,” I began, eyeing Saffron for any hint of what was going on. “I’m here for the
merchandise
.”

“Yes,” he said, “the Zinko.”

Oh. So it was okay to say it out loud now? The rules kept on changing. “I believe you know that Neil Gupta had been in negotiations with your associates in Dubai, Fujairah, and Salalah to 201

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purchase the Zinko.”

“Yes. That is true.”

“I would like to speak to you about Mr. Gupta and his interest in this rug.”

“But you see, Mr. Russell, Mr. Neil has already purchased the Zinko.”

My first hope was that I’d gotten sand in my ears. I asked the Bedouin to repeat what he’d said. He did. I choked.

My mind started revving up. Was this why Neil was killed?

I’d come to believe Neil was murdered because he
knew
about the Zinko and was
trying
to buy it. But did he already own it when he died? Had he been killed by someone wanting to steal it from him? Something about this didn’t make sense.

“Neil Gupta has already been to this camp?” I asked to make sure I had the facts perfectly clear. “And he bought the Zinko when he was here?”

The Bedouin nodded solemnly.

“When did this happen?”

The Bedouin looked perplexed. He slowly raised a skeletal arm and pointed west. “He is leaving now.”

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Chapter 15

In my fantasies of what my life as a prairie private detective might be like, never did I dream I would take part in a low-speed camel chase across the Arabian desert. But, on this Tuesday night in early February, that was exactly what I was doing.

Nadidah confirmed that a group of three had arrived at the Bedouin camp only a short time before us. One identified himself as Neil Gupta, and he completed the purchase of the Zinko as had been negotiated. The carpet was turned over to him, and he and his party were now returning to Jeddah. We explained to Nadidah with great exuberance and much arm waving, that he’d sold the carpet to the wrong person. The real Neil Gupta was most assuredly dead. He seemed rather indifferent to this turn of events. I suppose he had his money, so what did he care? He could book his ski vacation, or buy that chalet in Switzerland, or whatever it was that desert dwellers who’d struck it rich did with new-found loot.

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some assistance. Nadidah agreed to give us Saffron, and two camels, to go after the imposter and his accomplices. And so, as quick as one can rustle up a couple of camels—which was not nearly as quick as I’d hoped—we were in pursuit of the fleeing carpet thieves. I was in the lead with Sereena on Rosie, Saffron and Alastair brought up the rear.

After topping the first sand dune, I was able to get a better view of the situation. Fortunately, the moon was full and sitting low on the horizon, throwing a mauve-blue light across the eerie, undulating landscape. In the distance I could just make out the silhouette of three camels. One of the riders was very tall and thin, another squat and round, the other was somewhere in between, indistinguishable in the shadows. It wasn’t much, but at least we had them in our sights.

“How do you make these things gallop?” I called back to Saffron.

The wind was picking up, and it seemed my voice was stolen away. Either that, or the little bugger was ignoring me. He hadn’t seemed thrilled to be given the job of accompanying us on this jaunt in the first place.

All I could do was fall back on my horse-riding skills, such as they were. I gave the camel’s shanks a little kick with my heels and ordered: “Giddy up!”

Poor Rosie, she was probably thinking to herself: just because you ride me like a horse, doesn’t mean I am one. I heard Sereena, at my back, whisper something colourful under her breath. But that didn’t stop me. I called out again, this time jiggling the little round thing on the saddle and giving the reins a bit of a tug. Rosie finally responded and began a galumphing version of a gallop.

I’m sure this looked a little odd, and it certainly didn’t feel very good to my behind, but at least we were getting somewhere. Sort of. We needed to catch up to those carpet-baggers!

There should have been some sort of triumphal music accompanying our determined pursuit, the dark, fluttering folds of Sereena’s
abeyya
, the dastardly crooks fleeing into the moonlight.

Instead there was only silence, and the vaguely threatening whisper of the wind as it brushed gritty sand against our faces.

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We were making reasonable progress when I heard the shriek coming from behind us. It was Alastair.

“Russell! Stop!” Sereena urged.

I shot a look over my shoulder. The second camel, trotting to catch up with us, was now riderless. I scoured the desert floor for signs of Alastair and Saffron. I was startled to see both of them lying on the ground. Not moving.

“Stop, Rosie! Stop!”

She apparently did not know English very well. I suddenly felt like it was my first time on a bicycle, and I’d forgotten to ask where the brakes were.

I pulled up on the reins, this way and that, and mercifully one of the yanks did the trick. Rosie came to a jarring halt, almost sending Sereena and me snoot first to the ground. But at least she stopped moving. Getting her to move down onto her knees so we could get off on our own terms was another matter.

“Never mind that,” Sereena said after a few of my rein maneuvers and camel calls were met with nothing but a steely, resistant gaze from our mount. I swear she looked at me as if wishing she could take off her snout gear and spit at me (Rosie, not Sereena).

“Let’s just jump. We have to help them.”

It was further down than either of us anticipated. But at least the ubiquitous sand provided a soft landing. We sat up, checking all our parts for anything broken or strained.

“This wind,” Sereena shouted out at me above the whipping sound of sand-filled blasts of air. “This isn’t good.”

I knew that was true, but we had other things to worry about first. Helping each other to our feet, we eyed the two lumps in the distance where our companions had fallen. We tried to run, but we were against the rising wind. We moved as fast as we could, sometimes only managing a stagger, fighting the biting bluster every step of the way.

As we approached, Saffron sat up, then slowly got to his feet.

His tiny face glowered behind the wildly flapping fabric of his garment.

“What happened?” I asked, spitting out sand as I fell to my knees next to Alastair.

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“The camel, she became frightened of something. Maybe a lizard,” the boy yelled through the wind.

“Alastair, are you all right?” Sereena joined me at his side. She placed her hand on his left cheek, then his forehead.

“No, no…” he began to murmur, sounding disoriented.

“Do we have some water?” Sereena asked me.

“N-n-noooo,” he began again. “S….s…stop…”

We both leaned in over him, trying to hear what was coming through his lips.

As he sputtered more mumbo jumbo, I decided I needed to give him a quick once-over. I’m no medic, but from what I could tell, he didn’t seem to have any obvious injuries as a result of his fall from the skittish camel. No blood. No cuts. But I knew that told only part of the story. As my probing hands reached his right ankle he yelped out: “Bugger off! Stop that!”

He’d finally come out of his daze.

Sereena sat back on her haunches. “I’d say he has a sprained ankle. Or worse.”

“Worse?” he cried.

She regarded him coolly. She didn’t do well with crybabies.

He turned to me. “Russell, old man, I think we’ve just been diddled.”

“I’ll get some water,” Sereena said, making to get up. “I think he’s delirious.”

“There’s a flask on the saddle,” I told her. “There should be water in it.”