Dan Fesperman - Layover in Dubai

“What’s going on?” he asked from the floor.

“A prostitute and her pimp. The subject is money. She’s Asian; her Russian is terrible. His accent is Georgian, like Stalin’s. Oh, dear.”

“What happened?”

The shouting gave way to the sound of a scuffle.

“He slapped her. Now he’s forcing her into his car.”

“Shouldn’t you do something?”

“I’m not even in uniform. And the last thing we want is attention, especially when the people we are going to see are probably his bosses. In fact, you can sit up now. We are almost there.”

“Russians?” Sam struggled up from the floor and brushed himself off. “You’re taking me to some Mafia thing?”

Traffic was moving again. No Asian woman or Russian man was in sight.

“I was hoping you might recognize a few of them from the other night at the York.”

“Are you crazy?”

“My wife thinks so. But only because I brought you into the house, a viper to steal her daughter’s virtue. Do not worry, we will stay well out of sight.”

“You said we were just going to a mall.”

“We are. To observe a strelka of rival factions, Russians and Iranians.”

“A what?”

“A meeting. A conclave. These fellows have taught me all sorts of Russian that my tutors never dreamed of. A strelka is a meeting of rival thugs.”

“They meet at malls?”

“Out in the open, where they know they can trust each other, and neither side has a natural advantage. They’ll probably stake out part of a restaurant. We’ll watch from a safe distance.”

Sam saw they were only a few blocks from the York Club.

“I didn’t know there were any malls in this part of town.”

“It’s Dubai. There are malls in every part of town. And don’t let the look of the district fool you. The Burjuman is very upscale, although I cannot say it is one of my favorites.”

“You have favorite malls?”

It came out harsher than he intended. Sharaf turned in his seat.

“Tell me, Mr. Keller, have you ever been in Dubai in July?”

“No.”

“You would not ask that question if you had. In the summer the malls are our Great Outdoors. Everyone has their favorites. Everyone. Because of this, each mall has acquired its own personality, its own clientele. And the Burjuman, well, it is not to my liking, even though I can certainly appreciate its strengths as well as its drawbacks.”

“Which are?”

“You are an observant man. I am sure you will see.”

Looming just ahead was a sleek glass tower, maybe thirty stories tall, with curving walls that tapered to a sharp point, making the structure a giant wedge. Perched atop it was a huge fan of perforated steel, like the sail of a capsized windsurfer.

“Is that it?”

“The mall is on the lower floors. We will park underneath it.”

They swerved into an underground garage. Sharaf snatched a ticket as the gate swung clear. The Camry was a humble addition to rows of gleaming SUVs and luxury sedans.

“So we’re going to walk up to these guys, just like that?” Sam asked.

“Patience.”

There were plenty of empty spaces, but Sharaf drove to the lowest level. In the middle of the vast deck was a glass-walled chamber with an escalator that climbed past a roaring man-made waterfall cascading from the overhead floors where, presumably, all the shops were. They ignored that entrance, and walked instead to unmarked elevator doors in a far corner of the parking deck. Sharaf punched in a numeric code to open the doors and they rode up a few floors. The rear door opened onto a nondescript hallway leading to unmarked steel doors at the far end. Sharaf knocked. A buzzer sounded and they entered a gray vestibule rimmed in chrome.

A fellow in a security uniform emerged from around the corner. Sharaf, wearing gray Western slacks and a black long-sleeved shirt, flashed an ID, and the man wordlessly escorted them to the next room. Sam had no idea what a mall security center was supposed to look like, but he suspected that, as with so many other things in Dubai, this one was lavish and excessive.

A massive three-panel bank of video monitors fanned out around a semicircle of black Formica-topped desks. Each panel had more than a hundred screens, all of them in full color and crystal clear. The desks were covered with telephones and laptops. A uniformed man sat in front of each panel, watching intently. All three of them wore headphones, so apparently they could listen as well as observe.

“Looks like the control room of a nuclear power plant,” Sam said.

“Except here the stakes are higher,” Sharaf said, with no hint of irony. “Just a few months ago at the Wafi Mall a gang of Serbian thieves drove two Audis through the entrance and smashed their way into a Graff jewelry store. In ninety seconds they stole thirteen million dollars’ worth of loot, then drove back out, right past the fake Egyptian temple and all the shoppers eating ice cream. Here at the Burjuman there are forty different merchants selling high-end jewelry, including Tiffany and Cartier. Extravagant goods call for extravagant protection.”

Sam scanned the screens. Impressive names leaped out from the storefronts-Saks. Chanel. Dior. Versace. Dunkin’ Donuts?

The shoppers were nothing special. Shorts and beach clothes, plenty of blue jeans. Only rarely did he glimpse someone in traditional local dress-the men in white kandouras , the women draped head to toe in black.

“Weird,” he said, the word slipping out.

“What is?”

“There are hardly any Emiratis. They almost look out of place.”

“Now you see why it is not one of my favorites. That is why I wore these Western clothes. To fit in, if I have to. I feel like a tourist here. That, plus all the damned Russians, the mob types in particular.”

“This is their hangout?”

“One of Anatoly Rybakov’s, anyway. A local chieftain. People call him the Tsar.”

“I’d have thought he’d prefer Emirates Mall, the one with the ski slope.”

“Russians who come to Dubai have had quite enough of snow and ice. If Rybakov gets homesick he can always turn up the air conditioner and drink a liter of vodka. But it’s mostly their wives and daughters who come here. There. Screen twelve. Look at her. Zoom in, please.”

The security man nodded, typed a command on his laptop, and maneuvered a joystick. The image closed in on a sturdy Russian woman, middle-aged, with rouged cheeks. She stood outside Louis Vuitton. Her bleached hair was piled into a bun, which served as a perch for jeweled designer sunglasses. Tight slacks, fire-engine red, were matched by a bulging spandex top, which was draped by a clingy white cardigan she had buttoned to just below her massive cleavage. She puffed forcefully on a cigarette, inhaling greedily, as if she stood to win a million rubles if she could finish within a minute.

Alongside her was a formidable old babushka in a scarf and peasant garb, strictly Old Country, and shaped like one of those Matroyshka nesting dolls-the big one that all the little ones would fit into. Maybe they were in there now, squirming to get out.

“The younger one is Rybakov’s wife,” Sharaf said. “I am guessing that’s one reason he chose this place. Give her a night of shopping while he takes care of business.”

“So the Russians picked the place?”

“They usually do.”

“And the Iranians don’t mind?”

“They are outnumbered here. Or outgunned, anyway. The Indian mob, now that would be another matter. As for the Iranians, when your people have been here for four hundred years as traders and smugglers, you don’t get too worked up about little things like who picks the meeting place, as long as you are still making money.”