Dan Fesperman - Layover in Dubai

“Liquid bread? Maybe a little. But I’ve never had kvass, so I can’t really compare.”

He had seen it, though, served by street vendors in Kiev. On a summer day it had looked refreshing enough to make him curious. But he hadn’t tried it, mostly because the vendor was using the same glass for every customer, wiping it between swallows with a soggy towel. Such worries seemed foolish after what he had been through in Dubai. And now here he was in a sushi bar, of all places, seated next to an Arab cop while hiding in plain view from mobsters and, for all he knew, the rest of the police force.

But now he could comfort himself with the thought that in a few minutes he would be speaking to Nanette-a familiar voice from saner times, calm and efficient. She would arrange for his safe passage to New York. He heaved a great sigh of relief.

“What’s wrong?” Sharaf asked.

“I’d like to make that phone call now, if you don’t mind.”

Sharaf assumed a grave expression and gingerly placed his cell phone on the counter.

“I keep my promises, and you are welcome to telephone whoever you wish. But there is something I need to show you first. Here.”

He pulled a folded paper from his jacket.

“Your arrest report. I obtained it this afternoon, despite Lieutenant Assad’s best efforts to hide it. Read it carefully, please.”

Most of it was a rehash of what he already knew-the images from the security camera, the erroneous police spin on why Nanette had nudged him at the door, and so on.

“I told you. It’s a misunderstanding.”

“Please. All the way to the end. There at the bottom. See?”

There was a box containing information about the filer of the complaint. Inside it was a crisp signature with bold loops and slashing verticals, handwriting that was the very model of brisk efficiency. Nanette Weaver, his would-be savior, had filed the charge.

“She did this?”

“First thing that morning. Before you were even awake.”

“Why?”

“The charitable interpretation would be that she wanted you to be moved out of harm’s way under police protection. Considering all that has happened since, I’m not inclined toward charity, are you?”

“No.”

Sam shook his head. He felt lost, confused, and then angry.

“It doesn’t make sense. Yesterday she couldn’t wait to get me out of the country. And now-”

“Now she wishes to not only keep you here, but also to make sure you are unseen and unheard, and unavailable to answer any more questions from people like me.”

“But I don’t know anything. Or nothing more than what I’ve already told her.”

“She obviously thinks you do. Or maybe she is convinced you have wronged her in some way. Have you?”

“Not enough to deserve this.”

“But something, yes?”

Sam shrugged. They had reached uncomfortable territory, items that so far he had hidden from the police.

“Maybe.”

“You’d better tell me.”

So he did-the whole story of how he had been roped in to keeping tabs on Charlie Hatcher, only to become so charmed that he let his guard down and Charlie was killed.

“I was sure she was going to fire me. Instead she was completely sympathetic. Or seemed to be. She even, well, don’t take this wrong because of the arrest report, but I’d swear that for a while she was sort of coming on to me. I was drunk, yes. But I’m not stupid, and as soon as she shut things down I left right away. You have to believe me.”

“I believe you. She was setting you up. That little trick of hers in the doorway-dropping her key card, then nudging your chest. A very clever performance for the security camera.”

“You’re right. It must have been. But why? That’s what I still can’t figure.”

“I suspect that she and Lieutenant Assad have worked together before. He used to be with the customs police, and was in charge of cracking down on the transshipment of counterfeit pharmaceuticals, which I know is of great interest to Pfluger Klaxon. Beyond that? Perhaps you said something that raised an alarm. Something that seemed meaningless to you, but was significant to her.”

Sam shook his head.

“I was doing whatever I could to help find out who killed Charlie. I even-”

He realized he was about to incriminate himself.

“You even what?”

Sam hesitated.

“Please, Mr. Keller. In case you haven’t noticed, I am all you have left.”

He took the plunge.

“When I first called her from the York, right after Charlie was killed, she told me to take his BlackBerry.”

“Before the police arrived?”

“Yes.”

“Did you?”

“It wasn’t there. It turned up later when they searched his room. But he did have a datebook. So I took it.”

“Did you give it to Lieutenant Assad?”

“No. I gave it to Nanette.”

Sharaf frowned.

“Then her actions make no sense. Unless… Did you look inside it? More to the point, did you tell Miss Weaver that you looked inside it?”

Sam frowned in concentration.

“I did. I mentioned he’d written a few names and numbers. That was right before she invited me to her room. I was delivering the datebook when she dropped her key card.”

“Meaning she began her charade after she learned you had seen the contents. In that case, it is very important to know what you saw.”

“Like I said, a few names and numbers. None of it made much sense. But I wrote it all down on some hotel stationery.”

Sharaf brightened. “The piece of paper in your wallet?”

“You searched my wallet?”

“Of course. I am a policeman. But one more question, a very important one. When you wrote these things down did you summarize, or use shorthand?”

“No. It’s verbatim. I’m an auditor. We don’t take shortcuts.”

Sharaf beamed a fatherly smile, as if Sam had just brought home a perfect report card.

“That, at least, gives us a starting point. I will begin calling those numbers as soon as we’re home. Perhaps I will even pay a visit or two before the night is over.”

“I’ll go with you,” Sam said.

The words were out before he had time to think. It was partly because his anger with Nanette was coming to a boil. He was also realizing that simply hiding was no longer an option. He needed to fight back, and he had to do it here. Even if he made it safely back to New York, Nanette had probably spread enough poison to get him fired, or even jailed.

Sharaf was having none of it.

“I cannot allow it,” the policeman said. “Not with what you are up against. And I don’t just mean the Russians. I saw your Miss Weaver in action this afternoon.”

“Where?”

“CID headquarters. I was upstairs for a briefing. She was coming out of Assad’s office, and she looked me right in the eye, like she knew exactly what I was up to.”

“She can have that effect. What did you say?”

“Nothing of substance. We exchanged the customary pleasantries and she was on her way.”

In truth they’d said more, but Sharaf didn’t want to elaborate, partly because their exchange had unsettled him more than he cared to admit. Her directness took him by surprise. Most males in her position would have offered a fake smile and an oily hint of a bribe, or, if they wanted to be threatening, a vague allusion to all the local clout at their disposal. None of that for Nanette. She got straight to the point.

“Assad tells me you’re responsible for letting our Sam Keller go on the lam.”

“You’ve been misinformed. The booking sergeant was in charge of his custody.”

“Well, just so you know the gravity of the matter, Sam Keller stood idly by while a fellow associate got himself killed. And for all either of us knows, he was a participant in the affair. For good measure he then crossed the line sexually with a female superior, probably in an attempt to find out what I know. The sooner he is back in hand, the better for all of us, wouldn’t you agree?”