Dan Fesperman - Layover in Dubai

“That doesn’t sound good.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

A few minutes of stop-and-go driving passed in silence while Sam caught his breath. She had rolled up the windows and switched on the air conditioner. His sweaty clothes were clammy, but it felt good to be out of harm’s way. Laleh pulled onto a big, smooth highway-Sheikh Zayed Road, Sam guessed-and the BMW kicked into high gear.

In a few miles the silence grew uncomfortable. It was awkward enough trying to strike up a conversation from down on the floor, and he wasn’t sure what to say to a young woman who was probably just as nervous. He decided to break the ice with family talk.

“Your dad seems like a pretty reasonable guy. Except maybe where you’re concerned.”

“He’s come a long way even there, considering where he started. You should hear him talk about what things were like when he was a boy. A woman my age couldn’t even leave the house unescorted, unless she was married.”

“Wasn’t Dubai mostly desert then?”

“Yes, but he lived on the creek. When he was smaller his family lived in a shack built of palm fronds. Lots of people did. Then his father struck it rich and built a big house with a wind tower. Even then they only had electricity six hours a day, with one lightbulb per room. They had a well in their house, but it was salt water, only good for doing the dishes. Sweet water had to be hauled in by donkey, all the way from Hamriya, and it had worms. You had to wait until they settled to the bottom.”

“How’d his dad make his fortune?”

“Pearling, I think. And smuggling gold to India. Apparently pretty much everyone was doing it. Sort of like real estate today. My dad worked on his father’s boats one summer, but he never really talks much about that part of his life, except with old friends like Ali.”

“What made him want to be a policeman?”

“There is a story he tells from when he was a boy. A doctor they knew was the first man in the neighborhood with a TV, so everyone used to go there to watch while the electricity was on. There was only one station, run by the Americans at the Aramco oil company in Saudi Arabia. So the picture would come and go, and most of the programs were in English. Of course, my dad had already learned a lot of English from his tutors, so he would translate for everyone, especially during their favorite, the Perry Mason show.”

“I’ve heard of it. About a lawyer, I think.”

“Yes, a lawyer who always won. My father said he always felt like he was taking part in the victory, a partner of this man who solved every crime. I think he would have gone to law school if his father would have sent him overseas. But he didn’t, so…”

“Being a policeman was the next best thing.”

“Yes.”

“Good story.”

“If it’s true.”

“You don’t believe him?”

“I believe him. I just think there was something more. Something that he doesn’t talk about. His sense of justice is far too strong. He is adamant about it, even when it hurts his career. I don’t think you get to be that way just by watching a TV show.”

“Maybe not.”

Her remarks reminded him of something Charlie had said on the night he died, something about how easily people fell into predatory behavior. “Don’t you fall into that trap, old son,” he had warned. “Once you do, atonement is damned near impossible.”

He considered the implications of those words as the wheels hummed on the pavement. Soon afterward they exited the highway, and within moments Laleh had pulled into a parking lot.

“This is my building. We shouldn’t be seen entering together, so I want you to stay here while I go inside. Wait five minutes and then follow. Here are my keys.” She reached back across the seat. “My offices are on the fifth floor, suite 516. The receptionist will be expecting you. Give her my keys and keep going to the first office on your right. The door will be unlocked, and it will be empty. You might have to wait a few hours, but I’ll come and get you when Ali arrives.”

She got out and shut the door behind her. He listened as the sound of her footsteps faded. It was a trusting, even naive gesture. He could have easily driven back to the Sharafs’ house to see if the coast was clear, and then grabbed his soggy passport and credit cards for a trip to the airport. Buying a ticket would have been no problem, but he wasn’t sure he could have sneaked past the border authorities onto a flight home, especially if Assad had put his name on some sort of watch list.

But even if he had been inclined to try, he wouldn’t have felt right taking advantage of Laleh’s trust. Or of her father’s trust, either, now that Sharaf was apparently in trouble on his behalf.

So after five minutes he squirmed up onto the backseat, opened the rear door, and hopped out before locking the car. Only later, when he found out what a terrible destination Ali had arranged for him, would he regret the decision.

“I’ve sold you into slavery,” said the grinning man whom Laleh had just introduced as Ali al-Futtaim. “Not really, of course, but that’s what it’s going to feel like.”

Sam looked to Laleh for further explanation, or some hint of a smile to indicate this was Ali’s idea of a joke. He noticed she had put on an abaya for Ali’s benefit. She shrugged and shook her head, seemingly as befuddled as he was.

The three of them stood in Laleh’s office with the door closed. It was dusk, and everyone else had gone home. Her work space contained none of the ambiguity of her bedroom. White walls, gray trim, all the furniture upholstered in red. Nothing frilly or frivolous, but there were plenty of designs and mock-ups for proposed advertisements and marketing campaigns, posted on walls and easels, and spread across the broad white expanse of her desk. The desk itself resembled a command post-three-sided, with two phones, a PC, and a Mac. The Mac had a flat-screen monitor bigger than the television in her bedroom.

The view through her smoked-glass window looked out across Jumeirah Beach Road toward the palms of the Royal Mirage resort and beyond, across the emerald waters of the Persian Gulf. Off to the right, you could see the glittery archipelago of the huge Palm development, with its beehive of new villas and hotels.

From his hiding place in the office next door, Sam had listened for more than seven hours as phones rang and people came and went in the corridor. Some were her employees, others were clients. All sought her advice, and everyone spoke English. Once or twice he overheard animated discussions in which Laleh’s point of view sometimes yielded ground but always prevailed. Not by fiat, but by persuasion. The prevailing attitude among her employees seemed to be that Laleh Sharaf knew what she was doing, and you had better as well if you wanted to keep working there. Not once in those seven hours had Sam heard the call to prayer. Either no one had yet built a mosque out this way or the nearest muezzin wasn’t amplified enough to overcome the insulated walls and the constant sigh of air-conditioning.

Sam realized he had judged Laleh unfairly from all the trappings in her bedroom. No matter how she’d come up with the money to start her business, this was no dabbler or hobbyist. She was a young woman with a plan, a dedicated professional.

The question now was what to make of this fellow Ali, who frankly seemed a touch too slick to be a confidant of a rumpled old pro like Sharaf. His white kandoura was pressed and spotless, which made it seem as if he was gliding with every step. He wore a spicy scent and had an enormous watch and three rings on his fingers. From his smooth English and his familiar and comfortable manner it was clear he was accustomed to dealing with people of every nationality from all walks of life. Maybe that was why Sharaf and he were a match-Sharaf supplying the spit, and Ali the polish; the cop keeping his own counsel while his pal played the bluff extrovert, forever ready to make a deal. Or so Sam hoped, now that he was about to entrust the man with his life.