Dan Fesperman - Layover in Dubai

“You know,” she said, “Pfluger Klaxon would be far better off with a larger public presence here. In marketing and supplying their products, I mean. It really wouldn’t take much, considering the poor state of medicine in this country.”

Sam stopped in mid-sip, astonished. It was exactly what he had been thinking before the trip. Because for all of Dubai’s wealth and boomtown feel, it was known as a place where even wealthy expats didn’t find it easy to get the best pharmaceuticals. The company could have easily built more goodwill simply by making its products more readily available.

“You’re right. Exactly right.”

“Well, if your people ever decide on that course, I can advise them on the best way to handle it, with maximum publicity benefit.” She handed him a business card.

A born salesman, then. Already she had wedged her foot in the door, and she had managed it in a manner that made him smile. Maybe she was no dilettante after all.

“I’m sure you could. Thank you.”

Sam slipped her card into the lapel pocket of his suit coat, and took a fresh look at his surroundings. He was again impressed. The furniture and fixtures were stylish but comfortable, in complementary earth tones. Someone in the family had a good eye for these things, and enough money to pull it off.

“You seem surprised by our house,” she said.

“I am. In America you wouldn’t generally find this much good taste and, well, prosperity, in the home of a police detective.”

“And why is this?”

“Well, police salaries in America are pretty lousy.”

“They are here, too. Practically a beggar’s wages.”

“Oh. Then how…” His voice trailed off.

“How do we afford all this?”

He wasn’t sure he wanted to know, now that he had pinned his hopes to Sharaf. But he nodded anyway.

“The land and the house were free. Every citizen gets one. The rest comes from the businesses he owns, of course.”

“Businesses? Your father?”

“The Punjabis and Iranians who come here to open shops and restaurants must have someone to sign the documents, to stand in as a local owner. So my father has done that for maybe twelve of them. On paper, he is the owner. In reality, the Punjabi is, or the Iranian. The foreigner, of course, does all of the work. But out of gratitude he sends my father a check every month.”

“They all do? All twelve of them?”

“Of course. Many Emiratis do this, in all walks of life. You look as if you disapprove.”

“Well, it’s just that, for a policeman…”

“What?”

“It could appear to be…”

“A conflict of interests?”

“Yes.”

She smiled, the same smile you offer children who believe in Santa.

“You sound like everyone who works in my building. They are more interested in appearances than in reality. Maybe it is because of what they do for a living-managing spin, molding perception-whether they are in PR, like me, or work for CNN. To me, either you are honest or you’re not. If you are, no amount of money can compromise you. If you’re not, then even the best appearances don’t mean you can be trusted.”

“And your father?”

“Not the easiest man to live with. But he is honest. Always.”

The front door slammed shut. Laleh’s expression changed dramatically, and with the deftness of a magician she pulled out a white head scarf seemingly from nowhere and quickly wrapped it around her head, covering her hair in an instant. Heavy footsteps sounded in the foyer. Sharaf appeared in the doorway and warily surveyed the scene. He was still breathing heavily from the encounter on the lawn.

“Laleh! What are you doing in this part of the house unaccompanied when there is a male visitor? And without your abaya! What would your mother say?”

“That I’m being hospitable?”

“You probably weren’t even covering your head until I came in.”

Her blush told him all he needed to know.

“Yes, I thought so.” He turned on Sam. “You weren’t speaking with her, I hope?”

“I just-”

“He hardly said a word. I did most of the talking.”

“Not surprising. Well, I’m here now, so he’ll get all the hospitality he needs.”

“Nice to have met you,” Sam said, feeling he should help deflect blame. “Thanks for the coffee.”

“That will be quite enough, Mr. Keller.”

“I have a ten o’clock curfew, if you can believe it.” Laleh was halfway out the door. She now sounded more like a teenager than a confident young businesswoman.

“That will be all from you as well.”

Sharaf stared until she had retreated out of sight. Sam heard a television switch on, a channel in English playing just the sort of music that Sharaf probably despised. The volume went up a notch. Sharaf stepped across the room, shut the door, and then turned back toward Sam.

“Does she really have a curfew?” Sam asked.

“Is that any of your business?”

“No. But I’m not really any of your business, either, according to Lieutenant Assad. So maybe you owe me an explanation before things go any farther. Or maybe you could just let me use the phone.”

“I wonder if Laleh always has this effect on men, making them too bold for their own good. Has it occurred to you, Mr. Keller, that Lieutenant Assad might actually have been doing you a favor by having you arrested this morning?”

“What do you mean?”

“By moving you out of harm’s way. Especially considering what has become of the only other reliable witness to those men who killed your friend.”

“You mean-?”

“Yes. I mean it is probably not safe for you to be wandering around on your own. Even if you were free to do so.”

“Then why didn’t you leave me at the police station?”

“Because it is also possible that Lieutenant Assad wants to put you somewhere secure, like a jail, not to protect you but so that an accident can easily befall you. Which do I think is the likeliest? I have no idea. And that is one reason I want you here. With your help I might be able to find out the answer, to that question and to others.”

“So you’re not going to let me use the phone.”

“Not for the moment. But I will reexamine the question tomorrow.”

“What will I do about clothes? And money. A toothbrush, my razor.”

“Yes, I see what you mean.”

Sharaf sized him up, then nodded.

“You are about Rahim’s size. He lives between us and Salim. Not that I wish to see either of them again anytime soon. But I will do what I can. Stay here.”

Sharaf disappeared into the kitchen, then headed out the door. Sam immediately went to use the phone. But when he got to the kitchen he saw that the cradle was empty. Sharaf had taken the handset with him.

He went back to the couch, where he sat listening to Laleh’s music from down the hall over the muffled sounds of shouting from next door. He half expected her to come creeping back now that her father had gone, but he supposed that for the moment she had expended her supply of boldness. He was sorry for that. With only himself for company he felt his worries return. He was even kind of homesick.

On the other hand, he definitely wasn’t bored. Given what he had already seen of the household dynamics, the evening ahead promised to be interesting. After all those times he’d yearned for adventure, or an insider’s view, he was finally getting his wish-stretching himself, as Charlie might have said.

Of course, that was before armed Russians and vengeful policemen had entered the mix. Simply staying alive sounded like a pretty good option, too.

Sharaf slunk down the hallway before dawn, a prowler in his own home. He paused by Laleh’s door to listen for suspicious activity before proceeding to the guest room. Keller was still asleep, thank goodness. So was everyone else.