Dan Fesperman: Layover in Dubai

Poor dead Charlie. He deserved better.

Sam heard the first wave of cops approaching down the hallway-the clank of gun belts and nightsticks, excited shouting in Arabic, the heavy tread of boots. He sat exhausted and distraught in a swivel chair. Charlie’s body lay at his feet, fully clothed but crudely disemboweled, as if clumsy surgeons had hacked the man open and then abandoned the operation. The room smelled like gunfire, blood, vomit, and new carpeting.

Charlie’s face was a pale grimace, a trace of righteous anger seeming to linger even as his corneas filmed over like the eyes of a beached fish. His arms were spread wide, as if his last words had been a question: “Why here, and why now?”

At least the pool of blood was no longer spreading. Sam had already vomited a second time, into a trash can. A few minutes ago he had phoned Nanette to break the news. Her anger turned instantly to shock.

“Oh, my God!” she said. “How?”

“Someone shot him. Two men, I think, but I didn’t see it happen, and they ran off. I’m with him now. It’s horrible. They blew him apart.”

“Have you alerted the police?”

“They’re on the way.”

“Stay with the body, if you can bear it. And Sam?”

“Yes?”

“I know this is awkward, but can you check for his BlackBerry? It’s a terrible thing to ask of you, but we can’t risk having it fall into the wrong hands, not in Charlie’s line of work.”

“Quality control?”

“You’d be surprised.”

Sam squeezed his eyes shut, already bracing for the grisly task. Good God, but she was coldly efficient. Or maybe it was simply the difference between sitting in a spotless office in Manhattan and being in a bloody room with a dead body. And it was her job. She’d probably handled this sort of thing before.

“I-I’ll try. It’s a pretty big mess.”

“I understand. Just do what you can. I’ll phone the embassy, they’ll want to know. At some point there will be forms to fill out, procedures to follow, but leave all that to me. I’m coming on the next flight. Leaving tonight, probably.”

“You’re coming here?”

“We’ve lost one of our own, Sam. In the line of duty. Of course I’m coming. Just stay there until help arrives. And whatever else you do, cooperate fully with the authorities. We have lawyers there on retainer if you need one. In fact, I’ll round one up now.”

“Why would I-?”

“You probably won’t. It’s only a precaution. Police aren’t always the best in places like Dubai. Another reason to get his BlackBerry before they arrive. Otherwise, do what they ask and get some rest. I should arrive in the evening, your time, and I’ll take it from there. Better cancel your appointments in Hong Kong when you get a chance. There are usually a few loose ends in these situations, and I might need your help tying them up.”

“Sure. See you tomorrow, then. Or later today, I guess. It’s three thirty here.”

“I’m sorry, Sam. I know this wasn’t what you bargained for. I never should have asked.”

“If I’d only-”

“Please. Save it for later. I’ll call the lawyer. Stay strong, Sam.”

“Right.”

After hanging up he felt lonelier than ever, and faced the grim prospect of poking around in Charlie’s pockets for BlackBerrys, or phones, or whatever else needed salvaging. He found himself hoping that the bullets had destroyed any hardware so he could just leave everything in place. It was sticky and glistening down there, a slaughterhouse.

He peeled back a lapel of Charlie’s suit jacket, wondering vaguely why the man was fully dressed. Maybe he and the whore had finished their business and Charlie was preparing to leave. There was no BlackBerry, no phone. Next he checked the side pockets of Charlie’s trousers, finding a handkerchief, the entry ticket for the York, a silver Cross pen, and nothing more. That left the rear pockets. Sam wasn’t sure he could bear the idea of trying to roll the big man over in all this blood. The mere thought of rooting beneath the body made him gag. His fingertips were bloody, so he wiped them clean on the base of Charlie’s trousers. Then, carefully avoiding the pool of blood, he got down on his knees and poked his right hand beneath Charlie until he felt the bulge of a wallet in the right rear pocket.

No BlackBerry or phone there, either. But there was something tucked behind the wallet. Sam withdrew a thin datebook with a black vinyl cover and alphabetized tabs, the old-fashioned kind that no one carried anymore. Fortunately, it was clean. It was the closet thing to what Nanette had wanted him to look for, so Sam slipped it into his own lapel pocket for safekeeping. Then he stood, checked for bloodstains on his clothes, and slumped back into the chair. His stomach was heaving like a ship at sea.

That was when he heard the police. He wondered if the woman in blue sequins was with them. He hadn’t seen her since she hurried off to phone for help.

The first three cops shouldered noisily through the door. At first glance they looked as multinational as the York’s selection of prostitutes. The tall one in front was almost certainly Sudanese, and Sam was guessing the second was Egyptian from his noble Pharaonic face. Bringing up the rear was a possible local. All three wore khaki uniforms with berets.

The Egyptian took one look at the scene and flew into a rage. He grabbed Sam’s shirtfront, pulled him up from the chair, and shoved him against the desk.

“Why you do it?” he shouted. “Why you do it, huh?”

The Sudanese quickly restored order, prying them apart with a surprisingly gentle manner. He offered a few words of incomprehensible Arabic, presumably an apology on behalf of his colleague. The third one, who Sam would later learn was Jordanian, was already taking notes as he scanned the room.

A fourth cop entered, and the atmosphere changed immediately. He was older, early thirties perhaps. Unlike the others he was clean-shaven, and his uniform was lettuce green. He must have outranked them, because they stepped aside to offer clear access to both Charlie and Sam.

“Are you the witness?” he asked. He spoke English with a British accent.

“No. I’m his friend. And colleague. The woman who reported it might have seen it, but I don’t know where she’s gone. I did see two men running from the room. They were big guys, foreigners. Maybe Russian, but I’m not sure.”

The words came out in a rush, an outburst of dammed-up nerves, rage, sorrow, and probably some guilt as well. Jolly, reckless Charlie, dead on the floor in a mess of his own fluids, all of it happening while Sam stood in the bar, willfully ignorant, his phone switched off. He collapsed back into the chair. The officer placed a hand on his shoulder.

“I am Lieutenant Assad,” he said gently. “I know this has been a shock. Why don’t we go across the hall, where we can talk quietly.”

Sam nodded, temporarily emptied of words and emotions. Mostly what he wanted to do was take a long, hot shower, then collapse on a clean bed in a silent room. But at least now he could leave behind this horrible scene, although it felt like another act of abandonment. Another failure in a night filled with them.

“Lead the way,” he said.

The other office was almost identical, minus the body. Desk, chair, computer, printer, filing cabinet. Sam wondered anew why Charlie and the woman had gone there.

“Better?” Lieutenant Assad asked.

“Yes. Thank you.”

“My condolences for the loss of your friend.” He opened a small notebook and clicked a pen. “But the first thing I must ask you is what you were doing in the York Club?”

“Charlie was looking for a woman,” Sam said, deciding to be blunt about it.