Dan Fesperman - Layover in Dubai

“Excuse me,” she said, “but I’ve dropped my key card.” She turned and gently nudged him backward, pushing her fingertips against his chest. “If you’ll just back up a step so I can pick it up.”

She stooped beneath him, her perfume reaching him on a heady updraft.

“There. Come on in. Gin and tonic, right?”

“Sure.”

She mixed it strong, and they sat side by side on a love seat by the window-or small couch, he supposed. Thinking of it as a love seat seemed reckless. He sipped carefully, aroused but wary, while she asked him where he had grown up, what places he liked to travel-small talk that seemed to be leading nowhere until she moved closer and, with a look of great intensity, placed a hand on his knee.

“So tell me something, Sam.”

“Yes?”

Her face was inches from his. Her lipstick looked very moist, like she had just applied a fresh coat. He found it a little hard to believe this was happening, but in his dreamlike state it somehow seemed perfectly plausible.

“You certainly seem like the type who doesn’t like to let go of something once you’ve sunk your teeth into it. Am I right?”

“I do tend to chew things over, I guess.”

“Which is an asset. You’re steadfast, persistent. It’s why Gary hired you.”

“But?”

She smiled. Dazzling. He sipped his gin and tonic.

“See? You even anticipated the ‘but.’ But, as I was indeed about to say, this time I want you to let go, for your own mental health and well-being. Leave the mess for others to clean up for a change. And by all means stop torturing yourself over Charlie. The man was a natural-born charmer, so at some point you were bound to let him slip his leash. If there was ever a leash to begin with. Gary and I certainly weren’t very clear in our marching orders.”

Charlie. Just hearing the name made him think of the man’s rakish grin, his sense of fun. Then he thought of how Charlie had looked at the end-the ragged hole in his chest, the blood-soaked suit.

“Sam?”

He looked up, startled to find Nanette still there, ever so close.

“See?” she said. “You’re doing it now, aren’t you? Going over everything again in your mind. It’s a form of torture, really, for people like you.”

He supposed it was true. Why else would he have taken down the names from the datebook unless, at some level, he was still replaying everything in his head. And he did want to find out what had really happened, and why.

“You’re right,” he said. “It’s just how I’m wired, I guess.”

“That’s why you needed this drink, this moment of calm. And it’s why I rather enjoy helping to, well, distract you for a while. You might even say it’s my corporate duty.”

She moved marginally closer and slid her hand a bit higher from his knee. Now he could smell her lipstick. He wondered how it would taste when mixed with the juniper sharpness of the gin.

“You’re a very nice distraction,” he said.

“Thank you. But we have to be careful, you know.”

She retreated slightly, no more than an inch or two, just enough to make him wonder if he had said the wrong thing.

“Careful?”

“With appearances. In Dubai, I mean. They’re very sensitive about these male-female arrangements. Unless you’re married, it’s practically a crime to even touch in public. And being in the same hotel room together like this, well…”

“Really?”

“Oh, yes. It’s why I always advise male and female associates traveling together in this part of the world to stay on different floors, sometimes even in different hotels. And by all means never, ever look too cozy at the breakfast table. Or don’t you ever read those little memos I send out?”

“Sure. Sometimes.”

She smiled at his obvious discomfort. Then she removed her hand from his knee.

“It’s all right. I know you’re probably too busy. But the police do make a fuss about it here. That and drugs. One poor fellow was locked up for months when they found a poppy seed in the sole of his shoe.”

“Wow.”

“You’ve seen them in action. Do you trust them?”

He thought of Assad’s threats, and the rudeness of the other one, Sharaf, plus the vibe that something hadn’t been quite right between them.

“No. I don’t.”

“Nor do I. So we’ll try to keep you insulated.”

“But I want to help.”

“Do that through me, then. It’s my job. Not always the easiest job, I’ll confess. Nor do I always get the support I need from our boardroom. Another issue entirely, but it’s why I can sympathize so easily with your feeling of helplessness. And this time you really do need to just let go. I don’t want you to be too easily available for any mischief the police might try. Sometimes they’ll file charges just to extort a bribe, knowing we’ll pay. And the possibility that Charlie was up to his eyeballs in this mess certainly wouldn’t strengthen our hand if something like that happened. So until you’re safely aboard a flight home, lay low. And if all else fails there’s always Hal Liffey at the consulate. They’d offer sanctuary, I’m sure, as long as I vouched for you.”

“Thanks.”

Her words, although intended to reassure, were a little unsettling. He also wondered vaguely what had become of the intimacy of a few moments ago. She seemed to have edged even farther away.

“Sam?”

“Yes?”

“You look exhausted. I should let you go.”

It was an exit line, and fortunately he wasn’t too addled to take the hint. How had he ever let himself believe that she was making a move on him? He supposed he had misread her completely, although as he rode the elevator back to his floor her signals still puzzled him. If he hadn’t been so wiped out they might have kept him awake for quite a while. As it was, he slipped almost immediately into a deep and healing sleep, not stirring until well after sunrise, when he was awakened by an insistent knocking.

He threw on a hotel robe and opened the door.

Two policemen in khaki stood in the hallway. Neither was Lieutenant Assad. Perhaps there was news of an arrest.

“Are you Mr. Sam Keller?”

“Yes.”

“You are pleased to get dressed and accompany to us.”

“I’m what?”

“You are being in our custody with us, Mr. Keller. You are under our arrest.”

“Arrest? On what charge?”

“You are pleased to get dressed, sir, and accompany to us. Now, sir, let us go. Unless we are forced to take evasive action.”

The second cop, smaller and wirier, had apparently had enough of this ridiculous exchange. He gripped Sam’s forearm with surprising strength and pulled him out the door.

“Arrest!” he shouted, thrusting his face within inches of Sam’s. “You come! Arrest!”

“But I haven’t done anything!” he said, pulling for all he was worth. Everything Nanette had said about the police came charging back, dark and frightening. It was a frame-up, and he was the victim.

“Let go!” he shouted.

The shorter cop struck him sharply across the jaw, a blow that tumbled him to the floor. Then the first cop handcuffed him and hauled him to his feet.

“You are pleased, sir, to get dressed and accompany to us!” he said again. “You are under our arrest.”

Sharaf was just settling into the comfortable squalor of his desk after a late lunch when he heard the voice of the American, shouting in the next room. He was certain it was Keller, the fellow from the York. But why would a foreign businessman be out with the rabble in the main booking area?

Curious, Sharaf got up to look through the open doorway of his office. Sure enough, Keller was seated opposite Sergeant Habash, who was typing out a charging document.