Dan Fesperman - Layover in Dubai

“Why bitter?” Sam immediately wished he hadn’t asked. Better to have let the subject die a natural death.

“Passed over for bigger and better things one too many times, I suspect. That tends to happen when you blow the whistle and no one listens. And, yes, I know all about that poor veep for finance she busted in Africa. But he was an easy mark. The stronger ones with better protection always survive. And after that happens a few times maybe the inclination is to say, hey, if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.”

Or maybe, Sam thought, the inclination was to take out your frustrations on smaller fry, like a quality control officer with a penchant for randy behavior. Assuming that what Charlie said was even true. Obviously there was no love lost between the two of them.

“Well, if you think she’s interested in me now,” Charlie said, “just wait ’til a week from Monday, on the fourteenth. She’ll get all of me she wants.”

“Monday? In Hong Kong?”

“That’s another thing. I won’t be going to Hong Kong. I’m staying here through the week. Go ahead and tell her if she happens to ask. But it’s strictly for business. Tell her that, too. The reckoning is coming, old son.”

Sam told none of this to Lieutenant Assad, of course. Too much to explain. Nor did he even consider revealing his role as Nanette’s spy, which would have raised unwarranted suspicion. But with Charlie now lying dead on the floor, the man’s earlier words took on a new significance. What was supposed to be happening on Monday the 14th, and what was Charlie’s “reckoning”? Or had he prematurely brought that on himself, tonight at the York?

“So, then,” Assad asked, “where did you go next?”

Dinner, drinks in a few places he now barely remembered, followed by a fairly early bedtime. Sam then showered and crashed into a dreamless sleep, with the whine of the Emirates jet still roaring in his ears as he drifted off.

“And this was what time?”

“Maybe ten. No, later. I was pretty beat.”

“So for all you know, Mr. Hatcher could have met someone downstairs. Or gone back out on the town.”

“I suppose.” The idea had occurred to him as he showered, but he had been too tired to stay out longer, and he had counted on Charlie’s age to keep him grounded as well.

“What about the next day?”

“I was up pretty early. Caught a cab to the beach at Jumeirah to take a walk. Charlie slept in ’til noon.”

“Yes. He almost definitely went back out without you.”

Great, Sam thought. Just don’t put that in your report, in case Nanette reads it.

“We had brunch, then took it easy in the afternoon around the hotel pool. We both did some business by phone.”

“Local contacts?”

“Not for me. With Charlie, who knows?”

Assad scribbled a note.

“These calls. He would have been using a smart phone or BlackBerry, correct? Which you say you weren’t able to find?”

“Yes.”

It made Sam curious to see what was in the datebook. He wondered if he should hand it over. But that would be admitting he’d hidden it to begin with.

“And in the evening?”

“We had dinner at Al Mahara in the Burj Al Arab, the seafood place with the big aquarium.”

Assad smiled wryly.

“Did you happen to see a fat local gentleman in a very ugly brown pin-striped suit?”

“Not that I recall.”

“My boss, Brigadier Razzaq. He is there at least twice a week. His banker friends know it’s his favorite. He has been observed drinking alcohol there.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“And you dined alone, just the two of you?”

Was it Sam’s imagination, or was Assad beginning to leer, as if he suspected a homosexual relationship?

“Yes. Just the two of us.”

“Very cozy. And then?”

“Barhopping for the next few hours. Except for a stop at the Palace Hotel.” Sam realized he actually had an item of possible interest for Assad. “Charlie had an appointment there. Someone I didn’t know.”

Assad sat up straighter and flipped a page.

“The Palace Hotel at the Royal Mirage? The big resort?”

“Yes.”

“And you saw this person?”

“From across the room. I was waiting by the front desk.”

He remembered the cab ride up a curving driveway beneath under-lit palms, the spooky feel of arriving at an oasis by night. They crossed a bridge over a man-made creek to enter a massive stone gate flanked by flaming torches. Facing them from the courtyard was a life-size sculpture of eight Bedouin camel riders, galloping straight toward them, as if guarding the hotel’s marble entrance. The lobby featured a high domed ceiling painted in multicolored pastels, with enough room beneath it for a grand fountain and four towering palms.

Charlie made a call from the courtesy phone and crossed the room to wait by the elevators. Sam took a seat on the opposite side. A few minutes later a man came down. To Sam’s surprise, it was not a colleague in Western business attire or resort clothing, nor even a local in a flowing white kandoura . It was a member of the hotel staff, looking a bit ridiculous in a white silk turban and a red satin robe embroidered in gold. Hollywood’s idea of an Arab bellhop, or maybe a bouncer.

They stepped into a little alcove on the far side of lobby. The hotel man sat on an overstuffed couch, looking as if he wanted to hide beneath the cushions as he glanced this way and that. Charlie, for a change, seemed deadly earnest. He sat kitty-corner in a chair of carved wood and inlaid ivory. Sam was intrigued enough to stroll closer, hoping to catch the drift of their conversation. But the splashing fountain masked their words. Charlie spent most of the conversation nodding. He paused once to scribble briefly in a small black notebook. The datebook, Sam realized now. Maybe the fellow had been some sort of pimp, procuring women for later. He might even have phoned ahead to the woman in blue sequins. Sam must have voiced this thought, because Assad spoke up.

“A pimp? You may be right. Do you remember his name?”

“Charlie didn’t say. But he was pretty big, built like a wrestler. Full brown beard, neatly trimmed.”

“Yes. That will help. How long did they talk?”

“Maybe ten minutes.”

“Did anything pass between them? Papers? Money, perhaps?”

“Now that you mention it, I think Charlie slipped him something just before they finished. Probably cash, some folded bills.”

“You don’t know how much?”

“No. But when the guy left, Charlie was all smiles. Then he took me around the corner to the hotel’s private club. The Kasbar, it was called. There was a bouncer out front in the same kind of uniform. There was a guest book and a velvet rope, but when Charlie mentioned we were with Pfluger Klaxon he waved us through.”

“Did he say anything about his meeting?”

“No.” Sam hesitated. “But I asked.”

“And?”

“He said it was personal. ‘Personal business.’ Those were his words.”

“Anything else?”

“I didn’t press him for more.”

He hadn’t needed to. In truth, Charlie had talked awhile longer, although none of it was anything Sam felt comfortable sharing.

“Wonder where they got her from?” Charlie had said, staring as their waitress departed in a skirt cut to the tops of her thighs. “Whatever. We’ll be seeing plenty more of that later.”

He enjoyed a laugh at Sam’s expense.

“Don’t worry, Sam. I know you’ve been told I’m a bad boy.”

Sam looked down at his drink, tongue-tied. He was unwilling to lie anymore to maintain his cover.

“Well, Nanette’s right. I am a bad boy. Unfortunately, I’m not the only one. We’ve got some real predators at Pfluger Klaxon, old son.”