Greg Rucka - Walking dead

Poverty was the engine, and against the backdrop of Dubai, with its man-made islands formed to look like a map of the Earth or giant palm fronds or even, as was currently under development, the entire galaxy, it seemed all the more obscene. Like Kekela, most of the working girls sent whatever money they could afford home, back to Bangladesh and Beijing, Moscow and Moldova. I knew from Kekela that the money was, in many cases, the only thing allowing their families back home to survive.

"Xia is married, has two kids," Kekela had told me. "They're back in China. She's supporting them."

"When was the last time she saw them?"

"I don't know. Years." She'd paused, then added, "I don't think she'll ever go home."

We'd returned to the room, and I'd taken a shower, trying to wash the layer of smoke and sweat from my skin. I had purchased new clothes the day before, and I changed into a pair of shorts, then made up my bed on the couch. Kekela watched me from the edge of the bedroom, leaning against the doorframe, but she didn't comment.

"Sleep well," I told her.

"Yes," she said. "You too."

She'd left the door open when she'd gone to bed, and I'd climbed onto the couch and stared at the ceiling, managed to doze off only to come awake an hour or so later, feeling that I hadn't slept at all. After that, it'd been impossible for me to settle. I'd spent the rest of the night looking out at the Gulf, the lights of the dhows and the yachts, listening to the air conditioner and Kekela's occasional rustle beneath the sheets. When dawn began to show itself, I stowed my blankets and pillows back in the closet and got dressed in fresh clothes. I looked in on Kekela, and she was sound asleep, curled small in the middle of the very big bed. She was sleeping naked. I carefully closed the door.

The BlackBerry had been recharged off the USB cable to the computer. I swapped out the SIM, switched it on. There were no messages, no voicemails, which meant that Alena hadn't tried to reach me, not on that number, at least. I checked the alternate SIM, and it was the same thing. I checked the clock on the BlackBerry, and dialed.

There was no answer.

After six rings, I was shunted to voicemail.

I hung up and rechecked my math. I found no flaw in it. I dialed again.

There was obstinately no answer.

After six rings, I was again shunted to voicemail.

"This is Yeva. Leave a message."

"It's me," I said. "Checking in. Call me when you get this."

I hung up, looked at the smartphone in my hand, then tossed it onto the desk and went back to staring out the window. The sunlight was already rising bright, even behind the tint of the glass.

Alena knew when to expect my call. That she'd missed it wasn't, by itself, a cause for alarm. We had fallback protocols in place, alternates we were to use if the initial contact failed. In this case, the rule was to wait two hours after the primary attempt, and then to call again. If that, too, failed, there was a secondary number either of us could call to leave a message for the other, similar to the way I'd contacted Sargenti. Each of our go-bags had a prepaid mobile phone, as well, never used, entirely clean. If all else failed, that was the phone of last resort.

I marked the time, began counting down the initial two-hour window, trying not to worry. It wasn't easy. Alena didn't make mistakes, not about things like this. If she hadn't been able to answer the phone at a quarter to nine in the morning, it was because she couldn't, either due to circumstance or misfortune.

I was really hoping it was because of circumstance. Kekela woke at twenty past ten, and I heard her thumping around in the bedroom. When she came out, she was wearing one of the complimentary bathrobes, her hair a wild tangle. She yawned at me before asking if it was all right to order up some breakfast.

"Go ahead," I said.

My tone earned a somewhat confused look, and then she went back into the bedroom. I listened to her pick up the phone, order breakfast for two, which was polite of her, but then again, she wasn't paying for it. She hung up, and a few seconds later I heard the shower start. By the time she was out and dressed, the food had arrived. She'd ordered light, the continental breakfast, and when the knock came at the door I answered and signed for the meal, then went back to where I'd been sitting at the desk. Kekela poured coffee for herself, orange juice for me, offering me the glass. I took it and set it down untouched, still watching the clock.

When it hit seventeen to eleven, I used the BlackBerry, dialed Alena's mobile again.

Same result as before.

I killed the connection, waited thirty seconds, hit redial. Six rings, and then to voicemail. I hung up and this time dialed into the service, cutting through the menus as fast as I could and punching up the mailbox to check for messages. There weren't any. I backed out of the box, reentered the code, waited for the tone.

"Call me," I said.

I hung up, tossed the phone back onto the desk.

"Something's wrong?" Kekela asked.

"No."

The question was apparent in her expression, but she didn't cave to it immediately, instead sipping at more of her coffee. She took it sweet and light, with so much cream it looked more like milk than coffee. She'd found a croissant that she liked the looks of in the basket, was dipping one end into her cup. She munched, walking to the windows, looking out at the water.

"She's your girlfriend?" Kekela asked.

"No."

"But you have a girlfriend? A wife? Someone?"

"Someone."

"I think you must love her very much." She sighed. "She's very lucky."

"You don't know me," I said.

It came out colder than I'd intended, and it caught her by surprise. She put her back to the window, her brow creasing, wondering what it was she could have done to offend me.

"I've seen enough," Kekela said.

"No, you haven't. I know what you want. I know what you're thinking, Kekela, I know what you've been hoping for. And I hope you find it, I really do, because I think you deserve it, I think you deserve better than hooking in Dubai. I hope the guy comes along someday with all the money, and that he falls in love with you because of who you are and not what you do, and he gives you your escape route."

She didn't move, staring at me, barely breathing. If I was hurting her with my words, I couldn't tell, but with my usual grace and style, I most likely was. I didn't want to, but I didn't want either of us deluding the other any longer.

"I'm not that guy," I told her. "I'm not Mr. Right. Not for you. Not for anyone."

There was a tremble starting in her chin. She fought to control it. When she spoke, it came out as a whisper.

"You could be," Kekela said.

"Maybe once," I said. "Not anymore."

She might've had a counter, might've tried again to convince me otherwise. I'll never know.

In the bedroom, her mobile phone began to ring, and she went to answer it, seizing the escape. I turned to the BlackBerry once more and confirmed that I hadn't missed a call, a text, or a voicemail. I swapped to my alternate SIM, had just started to check that, too, when Kekela called out to me.

"It's Xia," she said. "She thinks she's found your girl."

Fourteen The reason the ratio of men to women in Dubai was three to one was precisely the same reason I could walk into Rattlesnake and twenty minutes later walk out with a woman on each arm willing to do whatever I wanted. The reason was money, Dubai's raison d'etre.

Most of the men in the equation are what the expat community refers to euphemistically as "skilled laborers," when, in truth, they are almost exactly the opposite. Like the women, they've come to work, they've come seeking respite from the desperate poverty of their homes. Like the women, many of these men have been tricked, either through willing self-delusion or honest ignorance. They have been recruited by construction suppliers, transported by traffickers, led under false pretense. Like many of the women, many of the men arrive to find their passports confiscated by their "employer." Like the women, they are told about the enormous debt they have incurred, the cost required to bring them to this new land of opportunity. Like the women, they are told they must now work to pay that debt off.