Layover in Dubai (8 page)

“Yes. He came to our table and whispered something in Charlie’s ear. Charlie nodded, like it was pretty much what he’d expected. Then we finished our drinks and left.”

“Did he say what the man had told him?”

“No. I figured it was none of my business.”

“What time did you leave?”

“Must have been about nine thirty.”

“Continue.”

From there Charlie had led them eastward down Sheikh Zayed Road, through a procession of joyless bars and discotheques with lots of chrome and black plastic, smoke machines and strobe lights, huge cover charges, strict dress codes, and glacial air-conditioning. The final such stop was only a few blocks down from the Shangri-La, a techno-rave dance club called Zinc in the Crowne Plaza, where an obnoxious deejay created his own tunes—if you could call them that—on a mixing board. The throbbing bass made Sam’s fillings ache. They left shortly after 2 a.m., and Sam figured Charlie was going to order the cab back to the Shangri-La. Instead he suddenly perked up, the liveliest he had been since dinner.

“Now for the main event,” Charlie said. “Our descent into the notorious fleshpots of Bur Dubai. Driver, take us to Bank Street. My young friend here needs an education.”

The cabbie nodded knowingly. Obviously it was a popular destination.

Bur Dubai was a revelation. Neither glitzy nor upscale, its sidewalks teemed with men, most of them dark faces from the Indian subcontinent, lit by neon and clouded by the greasy smoke of kebab shops. The cab reached a large and crowded traffic circle.

“So what’ll it be?” Charlie asked, gesturing in two directions. “The York Club or the Regal Plaza?”

Men stood in long lines outside both places. A banner near the York’s entrance advertised TV showings of English football, but Sam doubted everyone had come to watch Tottenham Hotspur play the Blackburn Rovers.

“How ’bout the Regal?” Sam said.

Charlie frowned.

“Sure. But if you want my advice …”

“All right, then. The York.”

Lieutenant Assad seized on this right away.

“So your friend,
he
chose the York?”

“I guess you could say that.”

The York Hotel’s check-in desk was along the back wall. As with every other hotel in the city, from the poshest to the seediest, the lobby displayed a trio of portraits depicting Dubai’s past and present ruling sheikhs, all in a row, as ubiquitous as Big Brother.

To the right was a small pub in which English football was indeed showing on a wide screen to a handful of customers. But the real action was just ahead on the left, where the crowd was lined up at a pay window by a stairwell.

“Spot me a C-note,” Charlie said. “I’m afraid the York doesn’t take plastic.”

“Fifty dirhams apiece for this dump?”

“It’s not the wrapping that’s important. You’ll see.”

They waited ten minutes to buy their tickets, stamped by the Ministry of Tourism. Then they joined a second long line of men waiting to pass through a metal detector.

“The place must be mobbed,” Sam said.

Charlie grinned widely.

“And to think, we have the end of the Cold War to thank for this fine commercial establishment.”

Sam frowned, trying to establish the connection.

“The Russkies, old son! The moment the Iron Curtain fell, loose women from Poland to Hungary started lining up along the roads leading from every border crossing out of the West. Putting their best foot forward, so to speak, and showing plenty of leg. It didn’t take long for a few enterprising old secret policemen and KGB types to figure out that this was their future, and within a year or two they’d franchised their operations worldwide. As a quality control officer I have to admit it’s impressive. Even an auditor can probably appreciate its amazing efficiency.”

“So this is a Mafia joint?”

“The York? Certainly not. I’m sure its ownership papers are in perfect order.”

“The clientele, then?”

“Let’s just say that your initial assessment—‘The place must be mobbed’—was right on the money.”

The line was moving faster now. A second bouncer had sprung into action with a security wand, doubling the intake of customers.

“Doesn’t that bother you?” Sam asked.

“You sound like one of those scolds who won’t shop in a Wal-Mart because they’re mean to their cashiers.” At this point Charlie had a manic gleam in his eye. Sam couldn’t tell if he was serious or was having a little fun at his expense. It might even have been anger. “They’re providing a service, Sam. In Dubai there are only two women for every three men, and heaven knows you’d certainly better not get caught slipping your hands up the veil of any Emirati woman. Let me put it this way. What’s more valuable in that kind of demographic—making a nifty little pill to help the menfolk get horny, the way we do at Pfluger Klaxon, or actually providing the means for those fellows to get their rocks off? Between us and them, I’d say we’ve got supply and demand pretty well covered, wouldn’t you?”

It was Sam’s turn at the metal detector. He noticed a security goon taking stubs from darker men and stamping their hands, so he held out his own hand but was summarily waved upstairs.

“How come …?”

“You’re white, old son. Just the sort of customer they want more of.”

“Tell me about the woman again,” Lieutenant Assad said. “Did he pick her, or did she approach him?”

“I didn’t see it happen. We got separated. He headed off into the crowd while I bought a Scotch. Next thing I knew he was coming back with her, hand in hand.”

“But he found her quickly?”

“Yes. A few minutes at the most.”

“Did he introduce you, or say her name?”

“No. Don’t you have her in custody?”

“And your impression is that she was Russian?”

“Slavic, anyway. From her face, the accent.”

“So she spoke to you?”

“Just said ‘Hello,’ or ‘How are you,’ something like that. Then they ran off.”

“And you’re sure you didn’t go with them?”

Sam frowned.

“I’m not into that.”

“I am not talking about sex, Mr. Keller, and I think you know it.”

“Then what
are
you talking about? And where’s the woman?”

“I suspect you know the answer to both those questions.”

What was happening? Why had Assad turned on him? Or had that been the lieutenant’s plan all along? Sam decided to say nothing.

“Tell me again about your earlier stop at the Palace Hotel. The one with the rendezvous with the member of the staff.”

“I told you what I know. Charlie met someone in the lobby.”

“Yes, but tell me what was said.”

“I didn’t hear it.”

“Have you always had such poor hearing, Mr. Keller?”

“I wasn’t privy to the conversation.”

“Of course you were.”

Sam shook his head. He was exhausted, upset, and now he was worried.

“Why are you doing this?”

“There are too many gaps in your story. Convenient lapses of hearing and memory.”

Sam had nothing to gain by speaking further. His nervousness gave way to anger. First, the fat cop had taunted him. Now the smart, smooth one was practically accusing him of complicity. And poor Charlie was still dead on the floor in the room across the hall.

Assad snapped his notebook shut and leaned forward.

“What I ought to do, Mr. Keller, is take you down to the jail and let you consider these matters further until I can question you after breakfast, or maybe lunch, or even dinner. Instead I am going to let you return to your hotel. But once you have had time to rest, I will want to speak with you again. And when I do, you had better give me the full version. Do you understand?”

Sam was about to protest, but figured that might prompt a trip to jail. Besides, in one sense Assad was right. Sam was holding out on him. He’d been spying on Charlie and had confiscated the man’s datebook. Not the sort of complicity Assad suspected, but complicity all the same. So he nodded and said nothing.

“Be ready after breakfast,” Assad said. “I will come to your hotel.”

As far as Sam was concerned, Nanette couldn’t get here soon enough.

Sharaf slept fitfully until he was awakened by shouting from the kitchen—his wife and daughter, arguing yet again about Laleh’s choice of clothes. Amina could not be worn down in these wars of attrition, a lesson that Laleh had yet to learn.

He heard Laleh retreat to her room. A door slammed, followed by the screech and slide of clothes hangers being moved with great fury along the bar of her closet. A moment later footsteps clomped back down the hallway. She must have passed inspection, because the next sound was that of her BMW backing out of the drive.

Good for Amina. Sharaf had seen some of the predatory males out in Media City. Lean and curious, stoked on caffeine or worse. Hungry for sensation, the very nature of their business. They would pursue Laleh the instant she offered the slightest hint of an invitation, such as a pair of exposed calves, or a plunging neckline. There were too many lonely men here in Dubai, hunting on their own. It was why you saw so many prostitutes, even in some of the better neighborhoods. After dark, a man in Western attire stood an even chance of being propositioned on his way to buy a quart of milk.

Not that Laleh was supposed to be showing
any
of herself outside the home. No matter what outfit she chose, she was supposed to cover everything with a black abaya, as almost every Emirati woman did when she was out in public. And that was indeed how Laleh always left the house, covered in black from head to toe.

Why, then, all the arguments over hemlines, necklines, and bare shoulders? Because, frankly, the Sharafs didn’t trust their daughter not to throw off her abaya once she reached the office. Not that they ever actually accused her of this. That would have been too close to admitting its possibility, and they preferred to ignore the thought altogether. Better, instead, to fight over the garments themselves, as if the abaya was a moot point.

Sharaf got out of bed. He hadn’t bothered to undress after returning from the York, so his uniform looked worse than usual. No time for Amina to iron it if he was going to make it to work on time, and he didn’t want to arouse suspicion by arriving late.

Amina had gone by the time he reached the kitchen. She’d left a note: “I’ll be at the nail salon at Mercato.”

Mercato was her favorite little mall, down on Jumeirah Road. Sharaf could take it or leave it. Too cute by his standards, done up to resemble a Venetian piazza. Fairly tasteful as such things went, and the air-conditioning was top-notch. But the mall’s compact size was stifling. Sharaf preferred the wide-open mega-spaces with four or even five levels. Mazelike floor plans where you could roam for miles at a time. In the summer it was the only sensible way to take a stroll, although you might have to endure an hour of traffic for the privilege.

Halfway to the office he realized he’d forgotten his notes from the night before. A few blocks after turning around he was stalled in a tie-up that stretched through most of Jumeirah. By the time he reached the house, Laleh’s BMW was back in the driveway. Maybe she, too, had forgotten something.

She stepped out of the house as he pulled up the drive, and she stopped immediately, mouth open, caught in the act. Laleh had again changed clothes, and, worst of all, her abaya was still bunched in her right hand. She stood for all the world to see in a knee-length skirt of lustrous black silk, cinched tightly at the waist by a patent leather belt. The top button was undone on a crisp burgundy blouse. Black nylons shone in the sunlight. Her dark brown hair was shaken loose to her shoulders, with nothing at all to cover it.

Sharaf’s voice caught in his throat as he stepped from the Camry. Before he could summon the energy to vent his outrage it occurred to him how beautiful and vulnerable she was, a mature young woman with a mind of her own, working every day among people her family scarcely knew.

By now she had recovered from her embarrassment and was moving briskly toward the BMW, keys out of her purse. She was hastily putting the abaya on, throwing it atop her shoulders and then shimmying as she walked. It dropped like a silk curtain, and she paused to poke her arms into the sleeves, a striptease in reverse. Sharaf stood by the Camry’s open door, dumbfounded but enraged.

“Young lady!”

“I’ve been through this already with Mom. This outfit is a compromise. What she wanted me to wear was simply ridiculous. I couldn’t have taken myself seriously.”

“It didn’t look like much of a compromise.” His voice rose. “Especially when it
wasn’t covered at all!”

“Sorry, Father, but I’m late.” Her face was sullen, unrepentant.

“We’ll discuss it this evening. Be home by ten!”

“I’m
always
home by ten!”

He was about to admonish her disrespectful tone when his cell phone rang. A glance told him it was the Minister, and by the time he looked up again, Laleh was backing down the drive, zooming past his Camry in a dazzle of style and polish. Music throbbed through the rolled-up windows, radiating with her anger.

So what was he supposed to do now? Chase her halfway up Sheikh Zayed Road with all the other commuters? He leaned wearily on the Camry’s door frame and watched until the BMW was out of sight. In her wake: a silent neighborhood of empty sidewalks and pale brown villas, curtains closed.

The phone rang again.

“Sharaf.”

“The York. You went?”

“Of course.”

“Well, what do you think? Is it a trap, or is it real?”

“Why can’t it be both? The important thing is that it’s an opening.”

Sharaf briefly outlined what he intended to do next.

“No,” the Minister said. “Too risky.”