Date with a Sheesha (30 page)

“Oh, no.” I heard the words above me.

A small chill nipped at me.

I turned. Sereena was standing over us, quite still, except for her hair, blowing wildly in the storm. She was staring at something, off into the distance. I got to my feet, and stood next to her.

And then I understood.

“Oh no,” I repeated the sentiment.

“See, I told you,” Alastair rallied from his prone position.

“We’ve been diddled, and good.”

He was right. We’d been conned. The camels were gone. And so was Saffron.

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The wind was becoming more forceful with every passing minute. We were being attacked by invisible sheets of sandpaper, abrading our bare skin. Alastair was injured and needed medical attention. It was the middle of the night. We were in the desert, miles from nowhere. With no means of transportation.

Nice one, Quant.

Sereena and I formed a human wall on Alastair’s left side, to shield him as best we could against the worst of the sandstorm.

“That little wanker
made
the camel throw me off!” he grumped. “He did something dodgy with those dirty little fingers of his, and next thing I know we’re on the ground! I’m telling you, he did it on purpose.”

Something about the fact that Saffron had abandoned us in the desert, with no means of escape and a killing sandstorm fast approaching, was compelling me to believe Alastair.

“Do you think you can walk, Alastair?” I shouted the question over the wind.

“Don’t you worry, mate,” he responded with a glimmer of his customary grin. “This is not going to be some scene from
The
English Patient
.”

I groaned. “How long have you been waiting to use that line?”

“Pretty much since the movie came out. But I must say, never did I imagine I’d actually ever be at risk for being buried alive in a desert sandstorm!”

“Well, you did tell me you came to Saudi Arabia for a bit of excitement,” I reminded him. “Here it is.”

“By excitement, I had something a little more romantic in mind. And with Hema in my arms. Not me in yours.”

“Come on, you,” I said sliding my arm under his shoulders.

“Let’s see if we can put some weight on that leg.”

“Wait!” Sereena called out. “I think I got him.”

She’d been fiddling with her cellphone, and, miracle of all miracles, seemed to have gotten through.

The idea had been mine. It came to me as we were chasing Saffron through the Souk al-Alawi, on the way to the vehicle wait-207

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ing to take us to the Bedouin. While in Jeddah, Sereena’s driver, Shekhar, was at her disposal twenty-four hours a day. I decided it wouldn’t be a bad idea to have him follow us to wherever we were being taken. And so, the entire time we were being driven out of town, Sereena was texting Shekhar with directions. It allowed him to know where we were going, without his actually tailing us close enough to be seen. I’d been tough on Hema for her PDA addiction and incessant texting, but now this pesky technology might just save our lives.

Shekhar had successfully tailed us to the parking lot where we’d left the four-wheel drive and gotten on the camels. He was waiting there for further instructions. Sereena handed me the cellphone.

“Shekhar, you are a lifesaver!”

“Thank you very much,” he said in his nasal accent. At the moment, it sounded like the voice of God.

“There will be three camels coming into the parking lot very soon.” I stopped there, realizing I had a dilemma. Did I have Shekhar rescue us, and let the criminals get away? Or did I have him follow them, and come back for us later? Neither had great side effects. “Shekhar, there’s only one highway into Jeddah from here, right?”

“Yes, sir, that is correct.”

“Do you see another vehicle in the parking lot?” Saffron’s father.

“Yes, sir, I do.”

“The men on the camels will be getting into that truck and leaving for Jeddah. If you memorize the description and license number, is there any way you can get someone from your organization to pick up their trail as they head back to the city?”

“Of course. They may wait for them by Al-Matar Road. From there they may follow them as they enter the city. There is no other way for them to go. This is no problem.”

“Shekhar…” I wanted to say I loved him, but thought it might not be a good idea. “Two more things.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is there a place you can park where the men coming your 208

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way cannot see your vehicle?”

“I am already parked in such a place.”

I really liked this guy. “Okay, great. I know you can’t drive in here. And even if you could, I don’t know exactly where we are.

You’d never find us in this storm. So, once the men are gone, I want you to start honking your horn every couple of minutes.

We’ll find you by sound.”

“Very good, sir. Very smart thinking. I will do that. I think they are coming. I see some shapes coming through the sand. Good luck to you, sir.”

“Good luck, Shekhar.”

I felt like a general giving orders to his man down on the front lines. Or was it the other way around?

“Okay, Alastair,” I turned back to our injured companion. “We have to get you on your feet.”

With some ouching and owing, we were soon successful.

Several minutes later, we heard the first honk, an auditory beacon from an unseen lighthouse. With Alastair supported between us, the three of us moved slowly towards the sound. I prayed that, with any luck, although nearly blind, and partially disabled, our ship would make it through the storm to a safe har-bour.

Although it seemed to be an endless journey, it took us less than half an hour to make our way through the desert to Shekhar’s truck. He was waiting for us with a very worried face and a much-needed bottle of water for each of us. By the time we were back on the highway heading for Jeddah, it was nearly morning, the first sprigs of light appearing against the dirty horizon at our backs.

When Shekhar’s phone rang, he checked the display and handed it to me. “It is my colleagues.”

“Hello, this is Russell Quant. I understand you are following some men for me, driving a white four-wheel drive?”

“Yes,” came a flat voice.

“Can you tell me where they are now?”

The news was not good. “We followed them to the airport.

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They are awaiting a flight on Saudi Arabian Airlines to Dubai.”

I looked at my watch. I was booked on the same flight, but my departure was much later in the day. Could my luck be so good?

Were they waiting for my plane? I was due for a break.

“They are entering security now,” came the answer.

I swore. Shekhar looked at me askance. I apologized.

I thought for a moment.

“Do you happen to have a cellphone?” I asked.

“I am talking to you on it now, sir.”

Duh. “Can you take a photograph with your phone? Of these men?”

“This is no problem. We will send it to you soon.”

I hung up and crossed my fingers.

Mere minutes later my phone indicated a message coming in.

A grainy image appeared on my screen. I got them!

Accompanying the photo was the message: Only two of the party were visible to us.

I studied the picture. It was of two men in a line. They were the perfect stereotype of a pair of villains, right out of a comic strip. Both had dark, evil features. One was very tall, sporting an unruly, bushy handlebar moustache. The other was shorter and heavy, with beady eyes squinting with malevolence. (Or so I decided.)

Gotcha, bad guys.

The next couple of hours were spent taking care of business before my own flight back to Dubai. Our first task was to deliver Alastair to a hospital, where his injured ankle could be looked after. He assured us he was fine on his own. I promised I would call him the second I had news of Hema. Then Sereena and I had Shekhar rush us back to the hotel. Just as Alastair had reported, Hema was not answering the phone in her room. I reached Semir the driver, and he told me the same story he’d told Alastair. She’d simply given him the slip.

I checked the front desk. They confirmed Hema Gupta had checked out. They also handed me a message she’d left for me: 210

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Russell,

I am returning to Dubai. I don’t feel safe since Umar’s death.

You should consider doing the same.

Hema Gupta

I studied the handwriting and decided it looked the same as the precise penmanship I’d seen from Hema before. The note’s to-the-point terseness also reminded me of Hema. I believed she’d written this note. Whether she’d done so under duress was another matter.

I showed the note to Sereena. She read it quickly, crumpled it into a small ball, and handed it back to me. “Don’t invite her to your wedding,” was all she said as she headed for the elevators.

Within the hour, we were both packed and heading to the airport. Sereena for her flight back to Egypt, and me for Riyadh, and then Dubai.

It was a long day. But it gave me time to think about all that had happened since I’d arrived in the Middle East, less than a week ago. I spent a fair bit of time beating myself up over losing the Zinko and the men who stole it. Sure, I had their picture. But what good would that do me? I could only hope that someone who knew Neil would recognize them. Then I focused on whether or not the Zinko truly was related to the death of my client’s son.

Pranav Gupta was convinced Neil was killed because he was gay.

Of course, Arabia is not the safest place to lead a gay life, but I’d found no evidence that leading a gay life caused the end of Neil’s.

Instead, I’d found that he’d been able to live a rather typical life for a young, virile, single gay man.

No, there was something else at play here. Neil knew he was in danger. Neil was anxious to get to Saffron, and through him, to the Zinko. Then there were the black petals. A curse? A threat? A warning of bad things to come if he didn’t back off from the Zinko? From whom? Then Umar, our driver, was killed.

Accident? Coincidence? Or had his role in leading us to the Zinko 211

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cost him his life? I couldn’t know for sure. And what about the surprise party that wasn’t?

I mulled over my growing list of suspects, which was pretty much everyone I’d met since arriving here. The boyfriends: Aashiq and Yash. The carpet merchants and Zinko liaisons: Fahd, Husain, Saffron, and, ultimately, Nadidah the Bedouin. Umar had known Neil too, so, dead or not, he might have played a role.

There was Alastair and the other carpet experts at the University of Dubai. And of course the Saskatoon connection: the parents, Pranav and Unnati, and cousin Hema. The ex-boyfriend, Darrell Good. The WACS executive director, Colin Cardinale. I especially liked him for this. Not because I had any proof: I just didn’t like his snooty attitude.

There certainly was no shortage of suspects. But suspected of what? Had there actually been a murder? Or had it been just what the police suggested: a random mugging by local hoodlums gone bad? And if it was murder, the real question was, why? A gay-bashing? Or, as my gut was telling me, something more complex and sinister?

As soon as I landed in Dubai late Wednesday, I had a taxi take me directly to the Deira Spice Souk. The shops were about to close for the night, but I was just in time to catch Rahim and Qasid as they were shuttering up their stores.

“You come for more saffron?” Rahim asked in his heavily accented English as soon as he saw me approaching. I was surprised he remembered me at all. Then again, there likely weren’t too many white guys coming into his souk asking questions about a dead man.

“
Assalamu ‘alaykum
,” I greeted him with a smile.

He gave me a wide smile in return. “
Wa alaykum assalaam
.”

I waved at Qasid, who was eyeing me closely. We exchanged the same greeting. I turned back to Rahim. “Rahim, do you remember the other day when I was here? Qasid told us that he’d seen my friend with some men the night he died.”

“Yes, I remember.”

I pulled out my cellphone and brought up the photo of my carpet-stealing villains, who’d I’d come to think of as Stretch (the 212

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tall one) and Squat (the chunky one). “Could you ask Qasid if these were the men he saw that night?”

Rahim took my phone, waved Qasid over, and showed him the picture. They began a short discourse. I knew the answer before Rahim shared it with me. The instant Qasid took the phone and saw the photograph, he began to nod.

My next stop was the Madinat Jumeirah, Hema’s hotel. She was no longer a registered guest. I debated what to do next. The lounge looked mighty inviting, with frosty cocktails imbibed by beautiful people and a stunning view of the Burj Al Arab with its nightly light show. Instead I took a cab to the university. It was late, but, as a visiting scholar, I had a set of keys for where I needed to go.

When I opened the door to Neil’s office, there was someone sitting behind his desk.

The man jumped up, startled at the sight of me.