Dan Fesperman - Layover in Dubai

“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.”

“Of course it’s risky. You hired me for results. You also told me to use unorthodox methods, keep everything off the books, and look for the first possible opening. This is our opening.”

“How can you be sure?”

“He was killed by the Russians, for one thing.”

“Assad has a suspect?”

“Of course not. And unless he arrests some patsy just to clear the case he never will. But everything fits: the location, two Slavic thugs, and the weapon, a Makarov semiautomatic.”

“There is already a ballistics report?”

“I saw a shell casing.”

“So you’re guessing.”

“An educated guess. Assad won’t let me near the paperwork anytime soon, so that’s the best I can do for now.”

“If you haven’t seen the report, then how do you know about the thugs?”

“The forensics team. They gossip like old women at a wedding.”

“So even that’s secondhand. Not good enough, not with these people.”

“What people? The Russians? Or are you referring to Pfluger Klaxon, the victim’s employer?”

“Merciful God, is that true?”

“He worked in quality control, meaning he was a natural troubleshooter. Or troublemaker; judging from what happened to him.”

“All the more reason to avoid this one, even though that jackal Assad is involved.”

“Pardon me, sir, but, as my daughter likes to say in English, ‘Get real.’ Because if anything out of the ordinary is involved, the mere proximity of a Pfluger Klaxon employee ensures that certain higherups will want to help clean up the mess. It’s the kind of name that always draws the big boys out of the shadows. The very people you’re interested in.”

Your ministerial rivals, he could have added, but didn’t.

For a moment the Minister said nothing. Sharaf imagined him cringing as he considered the various friends and associates he might alienate if things went wrong. Sharaf had seen it before-bosses who talked big about cleaning house, then blanched as the day of reckoning drew near. Fine by him. If the Minister backed out, so would Sharaf. But, somewhat to his surprise, Sharaf found himself hoping for the opposite. Having poked a toe in the water, he was now itching to make the dive. A last plunge for old times’ sake. Or maybe he just relished the challenge.

The Minister sighed.

“Okay, then. But work it from our side only. And for the moment leave the Americans alone.”

“You’re already tying one hand behind my back.”

“Those are my rules. If you’re as good as everyone says, it shouldn’t prevent you from achieving success.”

Another reason Sharaf preferred to be underestimated. It kept expectations lower.

“Don’t expect a miracle,” he said.

And don’t expect me to play by your rules, he thought after hanging up. Because the first thing he needed to do was to come up with some excuse for contacting the second American, rules be damned. Like father, like daughter, he supposed. No wonder Laleh was so defiant. Sharaf restarted the Camry and crept back into the maelstrom.

Someone was in Charlie’s room.

You could hear the ruckus next door even through the Shangri-La’s fortified walls-drawers opening, closets slamming, loud voices issuing orders. In English, no less.

Sam sat up in bed, wondering what the hell was happening. He must have finally dropped off to sleep at sunrise, not long after the first call to prayer. Now it was bright enough to be midday.

He had slept poorly. Charlie’s face kept bobbing up in his dreams-laughing in one moment, dead in the next, eyes fixed and vacant, rigid skin gone fish-belly white. As Sam stumbled out of bed he wondered how old Charlie’s kids were, what Charlie’s wife would say, what he would tell her. He supposed he would face them all at the funeral, a convicted man before a firing squad. Deservedly so.

The banging from next door grew louder. Sam shrugged on a T-shirt and pulled up his trousers from a wrinkled pile at the foot of the bed. Then he wandered barefoot into the hallway, where an American in khakis and a navy polo looked up from a clipboard.

“You must be the friend. Sam Keller?”

“Who are you?”

“Hal Liffey, U.S. consular section. I’m sorry for your loss. My condolences.”

Liffey extended a hand, but Sam was more interested in the doings next door, where there had just been a huge thud. Had they upended the mattress? The door was open, and Sam tried to move close enough for a look, but Liffey blocked his way.

“What’s going on in there?”

“Collecting his belongings. Sorry about the noise.”

“Sounds more like a search.”

“Well, they don’t want to miss anything. Standard procedure with an overseas death of a U.S. citizen. We collect the personal effects of the deceased and ship them home with the, uh, the body.”

“Shouldn’t the police be present?”

“They’ve been notified. They’re okay with it. If we find anything relevant, we’ll let them know, of course. We just figured it was in everybody’s best interest to move fast, especially after your office called.”

“Nanette Weaver?”

“She seems very efficient.”

“She’s due in at six. I’m meeting her at the airport.”

Sam checked his wrist for the time, but he had left his watch on the nightstand.

“It’s almost noon,” Liffey offered.

“I should get dressed.” He wondered vaguely why Lieutenant Assad hadn’t already stopped by.

“I’ll need you for a few minutes when we’re done, if you don’t mind. Some forms to sign, that kind of thing.”

“Sure. You haven’t spoken with a Lieutenant Assad this morning, have you?”

“No. I’ll knock for you when we’re done.”

Sam showered while the thuds continued. A curious business. He wondered if it was really routine. As he dressed he noticed Charlie’s black datebook on the nightstand next to his watch, out in plain view. He considered giving it to Liffey before Assad arrived, but he supposed that might also land him in trouble, or complicate the paperwork. Better to deliver it personally to Nanette. She’d know what to do. In the meantime he would hide it in a drawer, although his auditor’s curiosity demanded that he first glance inside.

There was little to see. Every page was blank except for the one tabbed with the letter “D,” where Charlie had written “Dubai” above a list of three names and phone numbers. The numbers were local. The first name was Rajpal Patel, the second was Tatiana Tereshkova, and the third one was merely Basma, a female Arabic name, but nothing more. None was familiar, and as far as Sam knew none worked for Pfluger Klaxon. There were no addresses, no job titles, and no other identifying information.