Dan Fesperman - Layover in Dubai

The woman on screen 12 was on the move.

“Follow her,” Sharaf said. The security man nodded and moved the joystick. The camera panned left, tracking her progress, which was hobbled somewhat by the slow-moving babushka.

“She’ll appear next on thirteen,” the security man said.

They followed her across three more screens until she approached a man sitting on a bench. She opened her Louis Vuitton bag to show him the fruits of her labors. He nodded, neither smiling nor frowning. Then he stood. He was compact and deeply tanned, with bristly gray hair trimmed close to the scalp. Black jacket, black slacks, shiny black shirt, with the top two buttons undone to reveal silver chest hair and a thin gold chain. Two younger, bigger men reared up behind him, peeking over his shoulder into the shopping bag as if it might be carrying a bomb.

“That’s Anatoly Rybakov. Recognize any of the muscle?”

“No. Sorry.”

“Do you have sound?”

The security man nodded and clicked a mouse. A garble of Russian and ambient noise burst from a nearby speaker, muffled by the raindrop crackle of a fountain.

“Will the audio be clearer in a restaurant?”

The security man nodded firmly, a man certain in his judgments.

The wife and the babushka headed off for more shopping, while Rybakov chatted with his bodyguards.

“Is this how he always operates?” Sam asked. “‘Hi, I’m a Russian thug, let’s chat?’”

“Officially he is the regional executive for RusSiberian Metals and Investment. Their specialties are Russian commodities and real estate development.”

“Is any of it legit?”

“The commodities were all looted at subsidy prices. The real estate is for laundering money. Yet another reason you see so much construction here.”

Rybakov and his bodyguards began walking. They stepped aboard a rising escalator.

“Stay with him,” Sharaf said.

“He’ll be coming up next on one-thirty-seven,” the security man said. “Center panel.”

Sharaf and Sam eased behind the next fellow with headphones, watching over his shoulder. They followed Rybakov’s progress across four more screens to the uppermost of the mall’s four levels, where he entered a restaurant called Bella Donna. The view of level four, offered panoramically if you scanned enough screens at once, was fairly spectacular. It was a darkened area of subdued lighting. The mall’s arched glass ceiling was underlaid by teak framing and a spaghetti of blue neon, which cast an eerie glow on the restaurant’s rooftop tables, where Rybakov was now taking a seat with his bodyguards. They were the only customers up there. Two minutes later more Russians arrived. Four more beefy fellows, nearly indistinguishable in dress and demeanor.

“That’s him!” Sam exclaimed, hardly believing his eyes. “Second from the left. One of the guys from the York.”

“In the gray jacket?”

“Yes. I’m sure of it.”

“Yuri Arzhanov. One of the Tsar’s lieutenants. A real vory-v-zakonye type of enforcer, which is another word my tutors never taught me. A leadership title he would have earned in prison. And you’re positive he’s the one you saw at the York?”

“Absolutely. He stared right at me.”

“Interesting. People of his rank don’t normally dirty their hands with blood errands. Recognize anyone else?”

Sam watched the group fill a second table. Two chairs across from Rybakov were still empty. Presumably they were reserved for the top Iranians.

“The one on the far right. I think that might be the second guy, but I’m not as certain.”

“He is not familiar to me. Probably one of Arzhanov’s minions. Could we have some sound, please?”

It still wasn’t optimum. Voices overlapped and were disrupted by the clatter of cutlery and glasses, the thumping beat of music. But definitely better than before.

The Iranians arrived, a contingent of seven. The one in the middle stepped forward to address Rybakov, a handshake that turned into an awkward bear hug. The Iranian seemed to resist before finally submitting with an expression of irritation, as if he realized he had already been put at a disadvantage.

“Mohsen Hedayat,” Sharaf said. “The other six, I haven’t a clue.”

Everyone sat. Hedayat and an underling took seats with Rybakov and the two Russian bodyguards. The other Russians sat at the second table, while the extra Iranians claimed a third on the opposite side. A waiter materialized, stating his name and rattling off the specials just as he would have done with a party of British housewives. Everyone ordered drinks and settled into their seats. A few even put napkins in their laps. The two bosses began talking, a tentative exchange that soon grew fairly animated.

“What are they saying?” Sam asked.

“Rybakov is apologizing. Not exactly with grace, but an apology nonetheless. He is doing it in Persian, probably out of deference. His grammar is terrible, but at least he is going slow enough for me to follow.”

A pause, then more.

“Hedayat talks too fast for me to decipher. I don’t think Rybakov can understand him, either, because someone is translating for him, and now he has gone back to Russian. All I can tell for sure is that Hedayat is unhappy about something, and is demanding satisfaction.”

“What was the apology for?”

“I am not sure. But I think I have an idea.”

“What, then?”

“Quiet. I am trying to listen.”

More talk. Sharaf leaned forward in concentration, and Sam didn’t interrupt. The conversation went on for another five minutes, continuing even as the drinks arrived. The bosses gestured toward their contingents, and several men from both factions stood, the Russians a bit uncertainly.

“Well, now. This is interesting.”

“What?”

“Rybakov is ordering your two boys to accompany four of the Iranians. To make some sort of pickup, apparently. Arzhanov doesn’t look happy about the arrangement, but he is not in a position to refuse. There they go.”

The six men departed the restaurant, the two Russians flanked on all sides by the four Iranians, like a parade formation as they strolled back into the open spaces of the mall.

“Moving to two-forty-nine,” the security man said. “They’re bypassing the escalators and heading for the rear elevator.”

“The one we used?” Sam asked. Were they coming here? Had he been set up?

“No,” Sharaf said. “Opposite side.”

The men moved briskly. The Iranians were still grouped around the Russians like bodyguards. They boarded the elevator and the doors closed.

“What’s the next screen?” Sharaf asked.

“The down arrow is lit,” the security man said. “They will exit either on three-twenty-two, two-thirteen, or seventy-six. Those are on three separate panels.”

Sam and Sharaf feverishly scanned back and forth.

“There!” Sam shouted. “Seventy-six!”

“That’s the lower level,” Sharaf said, “down where we parked.”

“There’s a blind spot,” the security man said. “Two cameras on that level are out.”

“Since when?” Sharaf asked.

“An hour ago.”

“Shit! What quadrant?”

“Southeast corner.”

“Let’s go!” Sharaf said.

Sam followed him as they rushed out of the room and back down the corridor to the elevator, where Sharaf cursed as he fumbled with the key code.

“You see? These people have extended their influence everywhere. I would bet any amount of money that someone from mall security was bribed to disable those two cameras.”

“Why?”

“Can’t you guess?”

He could. And it was the last thing he wanted to be rushing to see. The elevator opened, and they headed toward the glass cubicle in the middle of the deck.