Dan Fesperman - Layover in Dubai

The front page was the usual silliness, bright colors and bold headlines splashed on extravagantly glossy paper: An Israeli war game was in progress, drawing the typically hysterical reaction. Six new lanes had opened on Emirates Road, bringing it to twelve in all. Atop the page was a headline announcing that Sheikh Mohammed had been named the UAE’s “Distinguished Personality of the Year.” Now there was a surprise. He was indeed a great man, but this daily pandering was annoying.

Sharaf flipped the page. The agency handling car registrations was planning to auction the rights to more license tags with single-digit numbers. It seemed like a pretty good idea, seeing as how someone had paid $15 million for a tag with the number 1. He turned another page. Three killed in horrendous crash. Local college girl arrested for smoking hashish. Did Laleh know her?

There was nothing about a woman’s body being found in the desert, not that he had expected any coverage. Nothing yet about Charlie Hatcher, either. He had heard that the news would be released this afternoon, which would produce a brief onslaught of foreign press inquiries. He was happy to let Lieutenant Assad handle them.

Down at the bottom of page five was a brief about a missing tourist. Sharaf scanned it and moved on to sports, but something about the story set a hook deep in his mind. Flipping back a page, he reread the item carefully. A few moments later he rose from the table, walked quietly down the hall, and slipped into the guest bedroom. Taking care to make as little noise as possible, he lifted Keller’s trousers from the back of a chair, checked the back pockets, found the man’s wallet and passport, left them both in place, and then folded the trousers over his arm. He picked up Keller’s belt, shirt, undershorts, socks, and shoes from a small, neat pile at the foot of the bed. Clutching the bundle tightly to his chest, he tiptoed back into the hallway and gently nudged the door shut behind him. Fortunately, Laleh and Amina were still in their rooms. He exited the rear of the house and walked to the carport, where the Camry was parked next to Amina’s and Laleh’s BMWs.

The birds were in full morning song, and the first rays of sunlight were golden in the pale leaves of an olive tree. He opened the door of a small shed at the rear of the carport and stepped inside, where it smelled like potting soil and motor oil. Sharaf dropped Keller’s belongings onto the concrete floor. Then he leaned beneath a workbench and, grunting with effort, tugged out an old washtub of corrugated steel, and put Keller’s belongings inside. Turning to go, he decided to first check Keller’s wallet.

The contents were about what he expected: cash in two currencies, American driver’s license, credit cards, and a sheaf of dated receipts, including one from the York Club from the night of Charlie Hatcher’s murder. The only surprise was a folded sheet of hotel stationery from the Shangri-La. Someone had written down three names and phone numbers. The numbers were local, and two were vaguely familiar, although he couldn’t place them. Below was “Monday, 4/14!” underlined twice, followed by a scribbled sequence of letters and numbers that made no sense at all.

Was it connected to the case? Possibly. What could be so important about April 14, which was only six days away? It made him wonder what else Keller was holding back. He would delve into it later.

He held on to the paper but put the wallet back into the pocket and returned the trousers to the tub, while making a mental note to round up the rest of the necessary supplies later in the day. But to really make this plan work he would first have to phone his old friend Mansour, who, like Ali, had been a fellow diver on his pearl boat during that long ago summer.

Sharaf congratulated himself on his idea as he relocked the shed. A little unorthodox, perhaps, but it just might succeed. It would also serve the dual purpose of keeping the American from running away. You couldn’t very well leave the country without a passport.

He reentered the house to find that Keller was up and about, having dressed in some baggy clothes of Rahim’s. He did still have his suit coat, which seemed to be the only item that fit properly, but he wasn’t taking matters well at all.

“What the hell did you do with my wallet and passport? Not to mention my clothes?”

“No profanities in my household, if you please. I’ve taken those items into custody for evidentiary purposes. I assure you they’re quite safe.”

“Evidence of what?”

“Please. We will discuss these matters later. For now, it is time for breakfast.”

“At least the damn shoes fit,” he muttered. “Pardon my French.”

He seemed on the verge of protesting more, but held his tongue. Sharaf was guessing the young man didn’t want to make a fuss in front of Laleh, who had just appeared. She wore an abaya, praise God, although she had showered and dressed in record time.

Amina joined them seconds later, lips drawn. Her demeanor cast a pall on the table, and for a while the only sounds were of chewing and sipping. Sharaf broke the silence just before his last swallow of coffee.

“There are some serious matters we need to deal with,” he said to Keller.

“I should say so,” Amina chimed in.

Laleh bent forward to her bowl of fruit and yogurt. Was she suppressing a laugh? Keller kept his head down, seemingly wary of the family dynamics. Sharaf decided that the young man and he had better evacuate the premises before there was further trouble. He escorted Keller to his windowless hideaway and settled him onto the couch.

“I have a busy schedule planned for you later today, but first I have to keep up appearances by going into the office. While I’m gone I’m afraid you will have to remain locked in this room.”

Keller opened his mouth to protest. Sharaf raised a hand.

“Let me finish. I know this is a trial, but you must be patient awhile longer. Even if you managed to leave the house, without your passport you would not be much use to anyone except the people who want to throw you in jail, or worse. And don’t worry. When we have concluded our chores, I’ll let you make that phone call. I promise.”

That must have been what Keller wanted to hear. He shut his mouth, adopted a resigned frown, and sagged back onto the couch.

“What am I supposed to do all day?”

“There are some books in English here.” Sharaf gestured toward oak shelves along a far wall. “You are welcome to read them. I shouldn’t be more than a few hours.”

“And what are these chores you’re talking about?”

“We will discuss it later.”

Sharaf wasn’t ready to tell Keller they would be attending a Mafia powwow. He hadn’t yet figured out how they would pull it off, and it would only scare the poor fellow. Understandably so. Because if Sharaf’s hunch was correct, Charlie Hatcher’s killers would be among the participants. Now all he had to do was figure out how to let Keller make an identification of the guilty parties without anyone-the Minister included-finding out. It would be a tricky business in the wide-open spaces of the Burjuman Mall. The mere thought of it made his stomach churn and growl. At this rate, he wouldn’t be drinking camel’s milk for days.

Just a few more hours max, Sam thought, and he would be out of this mess. But for the moment he was back on the floor of the Camry, listening to the sounds of stalled Dubai traffic through Sharaf’s open window.

It was just after 8 p.m., well after rush hour, yet they were at a standstill. A cloud of greasy smoke told him they were idling near a kebab shop. He heard sidewalk chatter in three languages. A man and a woman were the loudest, arguing passionately in some Slavic tongue and getting rougher by the moment.