Dan Fesperman - Layover in Dubai

Sharaf watched, satisfied, as Keller’s eyes widened.

“We are a young country, Mr. Keller. Young and wealthy. And like any young and wealthy individual, we can famously act on a whim, with a spirited temper to match. So, whatever you do, do not underestimate the grave potential of the charge facing you.”

Keller swallowed hard. Sharaf placed a freshly opened bottle of water before him, and the man dutifully drank some. When Keller next spoke, his voice was subdued, chastened.

“But I really did do nothing. Ms. Weaver will back me up.”

“Don’t worry, I will contact her shortly. We at least owe you that much. Yet what am I to make of this affidavit? The hotel staff cites the indisputable evidence of video footage in which you are very clearly seen entering the room of a female guest late last night. In an obvious state of intoxication, I might add.”

Keller reddened, then seemed to recover some of his previous spirit, and he sat up a little straighter. Sharaf was relieved to see it. In order for his plan-still hazy, still forming-to stand any chance of success, the American would first have to show some potential for tenacity, even rebelliousness.

“Look. Yes, I went in her room. Guilty as charged. But it was for business. I was delivering a…”

He paused, seeming to stumble as he reddened slightly. “I was delivering a business item that Ms. Weaver had requested. And if they check the time signature of the video they’ll no doubt see I was only there a few minutes.”

Sharaf wondered what sort of “business item” could have made him blush, but that was a subject for later.

“A lot can happen in a few minutes between a man and a woman, Mr. Keller, as you and I well know. But even the possibility of an illicit sexual congress could be overlooked if you hadn’t entered her room so forcefully.”

“Forcefully? She invited me in.”

“Apparently that’s not what the tape shows. I’ll read from the affidavit: ‘Subject then forced his way through doorway, despite female’s attempt to resist. Female pushed subject’s chest, but subject continued forward and shut door behind him.’”

“But that’s crazy. I-”

Keller stopped abruptly, and his frown disappeared.

“Okay,” he said, brightening. “I think I know what happened. She dropped her key card and nudged me back so she could stoop to pick it up. All the video probably shows is her hand coming out through the doorway to push me. Someone in security must have overreacted. That’s all. Just call her. She’ll clear it up.”

“As I said, I plan to. Because I am quite certain this charge will prove to be spurious.”

“You believe me?”

Relief and gratitude showed in Keller’s eyes. And they were good eyes, Sharaf saw. Even in their weariness they conveyed a dogged reliability, a trustworthy competence, the very sort of eyes his wife, Amina, was always drawn to whenever she sought an honest merchant or a reputable doctor.

“Yes, I believe you,” Sharaf said. For the moment, at least, he had an ally. “That is why I am prepared to let you make that phone call. Provided, of course, that you are prepared to help me in return, if only for a few hours.”

Most self-serving scoundrels would have agreed right away. Keller, to his credit, didn’t.

“That depends on what kind of help you want.”

Sharaf was impressed. The question now was how to best put the young man to use without exposing them both to peril-and without the Minister finding out.

His desk phone rang.

Sharaf held up a hand in abeyance. He lifted the receiver to hear a voice from his past, a source from the bare hinterlands, an acquaintance from boyhood days of rabbit hunts and falconry, of royal encampments in empty sands. The man had news, and it was instantly intriguing.

“Where?” Sharaf asked, switching to Arabic.

He noted the location in a rapid scrawl.

“I will come immediately. And thank you, Daoud. As always, your good word and fine service are exceeded only by your generous hospitality. I am in your debt.”

He hung up, and addressed Keller in English.

“It appears I will need your help sooner than expected.” He rose from the desk. “Let’s go, before anyone thinks to reclaim you.”

“Where?”

“To identify a body.”

“But Charlie has been-”

“Not him. A woman. Caucasian, in a blue sequin dress. Sound familiar?”

Keller nodded, speechless. He stood uncertainly. Sharaf then led the way back through the hubbub of the booking area toward the main exit. Fortunately, Sergeant Habash hadn’t returned, and everyone else was bent over their paperwork. The last thing he needed was someone remembering that the two of them had left the building together. They crossed the parking lot to his Camry, which looked very lonely in its far, empty corner.

Then, without a further word between them, Keller and he climbed aboard and headed out onto the busy roadway, where Sharaf pointed his car toward the desert.

A Bedouin stood watch over the body, knee-deep in a depression of sand some thirty yards off the empty highway. His face reminded Sam of one of those nineteenth-century lithographs of Apache warriors-weathered skin, perpetual squint, a latent fierceness held in abeyance by a taut frown. His hair was long and black, and he wore a traditional white headdress that he had looped into place with a black egal . A red Toyota Land Cruiser, presumably his, was parked on the shoulder.

Even with Sharaf pushing the Camry to the limit, it had taken nearly two hours to get there. As they braked to a halt, Sam saw that the body was barely visible from the road.

“How did he ever see it?”

“You or I wouldn’t have,” Sharaf said, his hand on the door latch. “The lazy people who dumped it wouldn’t have, either. That’s why they thought it was a suitable spot. But the Bedu always notice, and Daoud has an especially keen eye.”

“You know him?”

“Many years.”

Daoud approached the car. The two men greeted each other with a ritual of hugs and of hands placed on hearts. Daoud spoke while Sharaf listened. Sam didn’t understand a word.

Sharaf nodded and uttered a brief reply. Then Daoud led them to the body, where flies buzzed in a frenzy. Sam, bringing up the rear, saw immediately that it was the woman from the York.

She lay curled on her side, like she had gone to sleep, but there was a huge hole in the back of her head, gaping black and brown from dried blood and brain. The blue sequins of her dress shimmered in the late-morning sun, except across the front, where they were stained by blood. The dress was hiked up high on her thighs. Her hose were torn, and the end of a gun barrel poked from beneath her waist.

Sharaf stooped for a closer look, focusing first on her legs. They were bent at the knees, and her ankles were bound tightly to her thighs by a stiff white cord.

“To keep her from kicking while they had her in the trunk,” he said. “They didn’t shoot her until they got here, so they wouldn’t make a mess in the vehicle.”

Sam kept his distance, nauseous at the sight of the flies coming and going from her mouth, her nostrils, and the ragged cavity at the base of her skull. Sharaf continued with his observations.

“After they shot her, they tossed the gun into the depression and dropped her on top. Wiped all the prints first, no doubt. A Makarov nine-millimeter.”

“You can tell just from the barrel?”

“I saw the shells at the York. The rest is guesswork. We’ll soon know for sure.”

Daoud directed their attention to a nearby set of tire tracks. Sharaf straightened, watching carefully as the Bedouin crouched and ran his fingertips across the imprint. Daoud then gazed back toward the highway, scanning the vehicle’s looping path. He spoke for a few seconds.