Dan Fesperman - Layover in Dubai

“He says it was an SUV, a BMW X5. Two passengers besides the woman. They arrived a few hours before dawn, and they were in no particular hurry.”

“All that from the tire tracks? Do you believe him?”

“When Daoud was a boy, his father could look at a set of camel prints and tell you how many riders had passed, how recently, their tribes, what quarter of the desert they had come from, and whether any of the animals were stolen. The means of transportation have changed, but the Bedu can still read the signs of any passing traveler in the sand. Normally for even half that information you would need an entire crew from the crime lab, with markers and plaster casts. But why waste valuable resources when Daoud can offer an instant reading free of charge, simply out of friendship and honor.”

Sam looked at Daoud and nodded appreciatively.

“Salaam aleikum,” he offered, expending half his supply of Arabic.

“Aleikum salaam,” Daoud replied, nodding solemnly.

“He also found a set of footprints,” Sharaf said. “New shoes, heavy-set male. Had to be reasonably brawny to have unloaded the body by himself while his partner sat in the car.”

Daoud began to babble again, this time in a more animated tone. Sharaf turned abruptly and gazed back down the long, straight blacktop toward the city. A quivering black dot was barely visible in the shimmer of the horizon.

“They’re coming,” Sharaf said. He set out briskly for the Camry. “You need to get out of sight. Open the door on the opposite side and lie down on the floor in the back. Quickly.”

“Who’s coming?”

“Police. Two cars. Our friend Lieutenant Assad, would be my guess. Fortunately Daoud can see them long before they see us. But hurry.”

Sam wavered for a second, wondering which cop offered a better chance for freedom. Maybe the arrest was just Assad’s way of applying pressure. Further involvement with Sharaf might lead to anything.

“Now!” Sharaf said. “Any closer and it won’t take a Bedouin to spot you standing there like a fool.”

Sam obeyed, although it was all he could do to bend himself into position and pull the door shut from the floor. He heard Daoud speak.

“What’s he saying now?”

“There are three people in the lead car. Meaning Assad has reinforcements. The second vehicle is a meat wagon, for the body. Not another word from you until I say so.”

Sam obliged him by not answering.

A few minutes later he heard the whine of the approaching engines, then the sizzle of gravel in the wheel wells as they turned onto the shoulder and stopped. Doors slammed. There was a clatter of something metallic. A stretcher for the body, perhaps. Then a voice-Lieutenant Assad’s, followed by Sharaf’s. They spoke in Arabic, unfortunately, so he had no idea what they were saying. But the tone of mutual disdain was unmistakable. He imagined them squared off on the pavement. All that Sharaf had on his side was a silent Bedouin, a dead woman, and a hiding American. Not very promising. Sam stayed low to the floor, sweaty and uncomfortable, and hoped for the best.

“So,” Assad began, “you poach my murder scene, steal my main witness, and now this. It’s all very annoying, Sharaf, mostly because it creates the distinct impression of a pattern of deliberate interference. Care to explain?”

“I stole no one. Just needed to chat with him a moment, so I borrowed him from Habash. Then I gave him right back.”

“Well, he’s gone.”

“Who? Habash?”

“You know who I mean.”

“He couldn’t have gone far. He didn’t strike me as the resourceful type. In fact, he didn’t strike me as a Lothario, either, which made me wonder about your morals charge.”

“A Lo-what? Some character from one of your Russian novels, I suppose.”

“A ladies’ man. A seducer. And it’s from a play by an Englishman.”

Sharaf didn’t usually show off like that, but with the likes of Assad the temptation was too great.

“Whatever. Why did you even need a chat?”

“Paperwork from my needless visit to the York. Can’t claim the overtime unless I justify my presence.”

“Paperwork for that travesty? I’d very much like to see any report you file from that.”

“Likewise with yours. We’ll trade and call it even.”

Assad scowled and looked around. Sharaf hoped Keller was keeping his head down. He had to restrain himself from looking at the Camry. Fortunately neither Assad nor his two assistants made a move in that direction. Assad instead stepped toward the body.

“Who is she, anyway?” Assad asked.

“I was hoping you’d know.”

“Russian, I’m guessing. Not my kind of people. You’re the one who speaks their language.”

“Money and power is their language. I’ve heard you’re fluent.”

“You never did say what you’re doing here.”

“Daoud is an old friend. He found the body. You’ll have to forgive him for playing favorites. Obviously someone else must have phoned it in as well. But I’m happy to leave the matter in your hands. There’s a Makarov beneath her, by the way. Please make sure it finds its way to the evidence room. And whenever you’re interested in trading reports, my offer stands.”

Assad scowled and didn’t reply. Sharaf crossed the highway to the Camry and climbed in, taking care not to open the door too widely. As he started the engine he hissed a warning to Keller, locking his lips like a ventriloquist.

“Stay down. The lieutenant has his eye on me.”

And a baleful eye it was, making Sharaf wonder yet again what he was getting into, sinking deeper by the minute into choppy waters. He eased the car into a slow, looping turn to head back toward the city. Fluency in money and power, indeed. Sharaf shook his head. It was a stupid thing to have said.

He waited a full mile before he spoke again.

“Maybe you had better stay down for the whole ride. It would not do either of us any good to be seen together.”

“Where are you taking me?”

“Excellent question. For the moment I have no answer. They will have the hotel staked out, of course, so that’s not a possibility. Do you have your passport?”

“Yes. But not my phone or my BlackBerry. They’re at the hotel. Wouldn’t it be safer if you just took me to the U.S. Consulate?”

“Maybe. They might even decide to fly you home, possibly as soon as tonight.”

“Sounds good.”

“Not to me. I cannot afford to have them put you beyond my reach. Remember our deal? I help you, you help me?”

“I don’t remember agreeing. And I’m not sure I’d call this helping.”

“Getting in the car with me and hiding from Assad was just as good as an answer, wouldn’t you say so? You are in this now whether you like it or not.”

“You did promise to let me call Ms. Weaver.”

“And so I shall. The timing is another matter. Why put her in jeopardy with knowledge of your whereabouts until we’ve decided upon a secure location?”

“But maybe she could-”

“Please. I will judge when it is best.”

“But if I-”

“Quiet, sir. I need to think.”

He also needed to calm down. Having Keller in the car was like driving a load of stolen goods. He kept expecting Assad’s car to come roaring up from behind, headlights flashing. But as the miles passed with nothing but the whine of the tires and the whoosh of passing trucks, Sharaf relaxed, and his mind drifted into memories that had been stirred by the sight of his old friend Daoud.

As a young boy Sharaf had considered the Bedouins to be foolish, living in their goat-smelling tents far from the comforts of the city when, like him, they could have dwelled along a tidal creek, with its cool breezes and fine homes. Then, at age eleven, he met Daoud. It happened when his father, flexing the muscle of sudden wealth and new connections, purchased four hunting falcons and got himself invited on a royal hunt.