Dan Fesperman - Layover in Dubai

It was a raid, plain and simple, and Sam was the quarry. He dropped the towel to the ground and backed away, using the shed for cover. Then he turned and ran for the rear wall of the family compound. It was about eight feet high. The first time he jumped, his hands slid off the top. The second time they held, and he grunted and pulled until he was in position to awkwardly sling a leg across the top. The baggy borrowed clothes hampered his movements, but the shouts of the policemen kept him going. Fortunately he was still screened from view by the shed. He dropped heavily to the grass on the other side of the wall, and found himself in an almost identical compound. It, too, had a wrought iron gate at the end of a driveway. Sam easily climbed over it onto a sidewalk that ran alongside a busy four-lane road. The median was a narrow strip of grass with an iron fence, and there was no opening in the fence for several blocks in either direction.

Traffic was light, so Sam darted across the first two lanes and scaled the fence as a passing driver slowed down to stare. He then bounded across the last two lanes to the far sidewalk and took stock of his surroundings.

He knew the police would soon realize he wasn’t in the house, and would probably begin patrolling the neighborhood. He was vulnerable out here in the open, and he was already sweating enough to soak his clothes. It was too hot to be wearing his suit jacket, but as the only item of apparel that fit properly it made him look a bit less ridiculous.

He had to find shelter. Looking east he saw nothing but more houses. A few blocks to the west there were some commercial buildings. Even if they were offices he could duck inside, so he took off for them at a dead run. After a block he thought better of it, figuring he was more likely to attract attention by running. Sweat was pouring down his face.

When he reached the buildings he was relieved to spot a sidewalk cutting between two of them to an inner brick courtyard. Inside was a small shopping plaza, tucked well out of sight of the road. A restaurant was to his right, a kitchen boutique was straight ahead, and a Coffee Bean café was to his left. He ducked through the smoked-glass doors of the café and took a seat at a corner table with his back to the wall. Sweat dripped onto the tabletop. The five seated customers-three teenage girls in one group, two women in Western business suits in another-stopped in mid-conversation and eyed him with a touch of apprehension. So did the two young men behind the counter. Sam smiled wanly and pretended to study the chalkboard menu as he wiped his face dry with a napkin.

In a few seconds conversation returned to normal. He glanced nervously toward the door, but no one was in pursuit.

For the moment he was safe. But where could he go next? He had no money, no phone, no charge cards, and no passport. For a few moments he verged on panic. Then he calmed himself and glanced again at the menu, if only for the benefit of the other customers. It was then that he remembered the one item he did have, tucked in the inner pocket of his suit jacket.

He reached inside and retrieved Laleh Sharaf’s business card.

Sam turned toward the two businesswomen, who were speaking English in British accents. He smiled in a way that he hoped was neither maniacal nor threatening, and launched his cover story.

“Excuse me. I just arrived this morning after an overnight flight from the States. They lost my luggage, which is why I’m wearing these ridiculous clothes, and now I’m afraid I’ve missed an appointment with a friend who was supposed to meet me here. I’d call him, but my cell phone is dead and the charger is in my luggage, and, well, I was just wondering if I might borrow one of your phones to make one quick call?”

“Certainly,” one of the women answered, although her eyes said she was anything but certain about Sam. She handed over the phone without leaning toward him an inch more than necessary.

“Thanks.”

He turned in the other direction and punched in the number. A receptionist answered in English, which he supposed was the language of commerce in Media City. He reluctantly offered his name, and she put him through to Laleh without a moment’s delay.

“Are you safe?” She sounded almost frantic, and he wondered why.

“Sort of. I’m at a café a few blocks from your house. The police came when I was out back, so I ran for it.”

“My father’s been arrested. I’ve been calling and calling the house, trying to reach you.”

“Arrested?” He glanced toward the door, already losing hope. The woman who had loaned him the phone narrowed her eyes. Maybe she was eavesdropping.

“My father’s friend Ali is making arrangements for you as we speak. Where did you say you were?”

“Some café-the Coffee Bean.”

“It must be the one off Jumeirah Road. Don’t move. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

She hung up. He wiped his sweat from the phone and returned it, feeling more like a fugitive than ever. The countermen seemed edgy again, and he didn’t have a single dirham to buy a coffee.

“I’m meeting a friend,” he said to one of them. He cleared his throat self-consciously and stared out the glass walls. Fifteen minutes later-she must have driven especially fast-Laleh strode briskly into the sunny courtyard. Sam was shocked to see that she wasn’t wearing her abaya. He stood quickly and met her just as she was coming through the door. They both looked around nervously, and neither spoke until they reached her car.

Already she was a different young woman from the one he had met at her house. She was neither the flirtatious girl on her home turf nor the confident young businesswoman in the magazine. You could tell she was uncertain in this new role, yet a little excited by it as well.

“I’ve spoken with Ali,” she said. “I’m driving you to Media City. One of my creative people is out on a call. You can wait in his office until Ali is ready to move you. You really should do something about those clothes, you know.”

“Speaking of clothes-”

Laleh blushed. “You’re not to say a word of this to my mother or father.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. And I’d be dressed better myself if your dad hadn’t put my clothes in a tub of water.”

“He what?”

She looked at him like he had lost his mind, so he didn’t belabor the point. Laleh pressed her key to pop the locks of the BMW. Then she paused, as if she wasn’t quite sure where to put him. He supposed she almost never rode anywhere with a male her age, not without an escort.

“Should I lie down in the back? It’s what your father had me do.”

“Yes.” She seemed relieved by the suggestion. “It’s probably best for you to stay out of sight.”

At least her car had plenty of floor space. There was even room to sit up. He wondered if this was going to be his mode of transportation from now on in Dubai.

When she turned the key in the ignition, music blared from the speakers. There was flustered movement up front as she switched off the radio.

“Sorry.”

“No problem. You can play it if you want.”

“That’s all right. Are you comfortable?”

“I’m fine. Thanks for coming to get me.”

She put the car in gear and eased away from the curb, heading west.

“Ali told me my father was desperate for someone to get you out of there, although I doubt it was me he would have preferred for the job, especially if it means spending time alone with you. Well, not really alone, but…”

“I know what you mean. Why was he arrested? Because of me?”

“Ali wasn’t sure. He just said they took him away in a meat wagon, the van they use for common criminals. It was clear they wanted to make a spectacle of it.”