Dan Fesperman - Layover in Dubai

Not long after dinner on the second day, when everyone had been locked down for the night, Sharaf settled into his bunk to read. The book was the worst sort of pulp, a high-action thriller that described weapons more lovingly than people. But it must have passed the time, because the next thing Sharaf knew he was awakening in the dark to strange noises overhead.

The bunks in his cell were silent, but the ceiling trembled as if cattle were stampeding on the floor above. Thundering footsteps receded, only to be replaced by a frantic howl, and then another. The distant noise of barking dogs chilled him enough to want to pull the blanket tighter. Then came more footsteps, a hoot of laughter, and silence.

Someone in the next bunk moaned and rolled over in his sleep. The cell door buzzed ominously. The lock clicked loudly and the door swung free, as if opened by a spirit. Sharaf quickly pulled on his slippers and slid from the bunk. Already he heard the mutter of voices from the unseen end of the corridor, low and conspiratorial, people up to no good.

He leaned forward for a glance. The first thing he saw was the clock-4 a.m. Then he saw the guards, maybe fifteen of them. Or he supposed they were guards, because they weren’t clad in their usual forest green. These fellows were dressed like burglars-black T-shirts, black pants, black balaclavas with holes for their mouths and eyes, and long black batons, like the one that had probed him during the strip search.

Sharaf pulled the door shut, but the lock wouldn’t catch. The guards began to shout. The men in black were rousting prisoners from their beds in the cells at the far end.

“Wake up!” Sharaf said. “They’re coming!”

“Shit!” Nabil said, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “I’ve heard about these raids. Not good.”

Obaid must have, too. He was already kneeling on the floor, offering a plaintive prayer of fear and woe.

“Deliver us, inshallah, most holy God our protector!”

“Out of your beds and into the hall!” It was a guard. His mouth, visible through the hole in his balaclava, moved like a pink sea creature. The inmates complied, but for good measure he whacked each passing man on the rump with his baton.

“Faster!” he shouted. “Unless you want more of that. Faster!”

Only Obaid remained in the cell, still kneeling. In a spasm of rage, the guard elbowed quickly through the doorway and struck a savage blow to the back of his bowed head. It resounded almost musically, as if the baton had struck hollowed wood. Sharaf cringed. Obaid went silent, and slumped sideways, still in a kneeling position. Blood trickled from his nostrils.

“That’s what the rest of you will get if you don’t move when I say. I don’t care what colors you’re wearing. Down the hallway, now!”

The men stepped briskly. No one said a word. Every other cell was in similar chaos-cries of pain and anguish mixed with the thumps of batons, although none were as gruesome as the blow to Obaid’s head.

Doors opened at the end of the corridor. Waiting on the other side was a receiving line of perhaps a dozen more men in black, except each held a German shepherd straining at a leash.

“Run!” their escort shouted. “Run past them if you can, all the way to the yard!”

A man ahead of Sharaf tripped. The nearest guard released his dog, which pounced as if someone had just flung a steak to the floor. The poor fellow shouted in terror and covered his head with his hands. Nabil, just ahead, nearly lost his balance as he slowed to dodge the fallen man. Sharaf grabbed his tunic in the nick of time and shoved him forward. A dog’s snout flashed out from the right, teeth snapping. Sharaf veered left and ran hard, finally reaching the far door just behind Nabil. They spilled into the yard, nearly collapsing onto the others who had already reached safety. No one had turned on the outdoor lighting, and it was eerily dark beneath the pale glow of a half-moon. From cellblocks all over the prison you could hear shouts and screams, and lots of barking. Sharaf’s tunic was soaked with sweat, and he was heaving for breath.

“My cousin, Khalifa!” he heard Nabil say. “There he is!”

Indeed, nearly every cellblock on their side of the prison was emptying into the yard. The space was filling rapidly. There must have already been two hundred men there, and more were coming every second from doors at both ends. Some were bleeding. Others were doubled over in pain. No guards seemed to be among them. Looking back through a large window on the side, Sharaf saw several of the prison’s ranking officers in khaki uniforms with gaudy stripes and epaulets. They were laughing uproariously and taking flash photos with their cell phones.

When Sharaf turned back around, Nabil had disappeared. Sharaf finally spotted him in a far corner chatting rapidly with a man who must be Khalifa. As shaken as he was, Sharaf realized this might be his one chance to ask about the doorman Patel. The problem was that he still needed to play it cool, even though he was buzzing with adrenaline, and the cousin would be as well.

He shoved his way through the crowd. Fortunately Nabil saw him coming.

“There he is!” Nabil said loudly, pointing at Sharaf. The earlier stunned silence of most of the prisoners had given way to relieved yammering and shouting, a collective release of emotions. “This is the fellow Anwar I was telling you about. He’s here for the same reason, except they didn’t even bother to charge him. Anwar, this is my cousin, Khalifa.”

Figuring time was limited, Sharaf got to the point.

“I think I know the policeman who is looking for your friend, Rajpal Patel,” Sharaf said. “I also believe I know why they are after him. And I know this because I am a policeman myself. If you will tell me where to find him, then I may even be able to help him, if and when I get out of here. My name is Sharaf, Anwar Sharaf, and I give you my word as an honorable man.”

Sharaf knew immediately he had miscalculated. Khalifa backed away and gave Nabil a puzzled look.

“Why have you told him about Rajpal?”

Nabil’s answer was swallowed by the cries of the mob. Guards were pouring in from both doors, some with dogs, others with raised batons. The men howled and shoved toward the center of the yard, raising their hands to their heads as the guards threshed their way through as if harvesting crops.

Sharaf held his ground as the guards moved closer. Nabil and his cousin did the same. One reared up a few feet away, raising his baton and then swinging it down like a saber toward Sharaf’s right shoulder. He was just able to deflect the baton with his right hand, knuckles smarting as the wood struck them in a glancing blow. He staggered back into Nabil and the second blow came too fast to avoid, smashing into his collarbone. As he lost his balance the baton then struck his head, a thump near the hairline that sent him to his knees as Nabil cried out in protest.

The last thing Sharaf felt was a boot pressing into his back as he collapsed forward, and then a ringing blow to the back of his head, which reverberated like a bell through every bone in his body.

After that, nothing. Nothing at all.

Just as Nanette expected, Sam Keller had sent up a flare. As soon as she had all the details, the hunt would begin in earnest. It was 10:12 p.m. in Dubai, and Gary Grimshaw had just phoned from Manhattan with the news.

“Damned if you weren’t right,” Gary said. “He went looking for help, just like you said.”

Nanette wasn’t interested in compliments. She wanted information, and right away.

“Who did he call?”

“One of my people. Stu Plevy, a coworker. Bit of a weasel, but I’ve gotta hand it to him, he reported it first thing this morning. Played it right by the book.”