Dan Fesperman - Layover in Dubai

“He took care of them in his way, buying them things from time to time, and making sure they were never wanting for necessities. And of course he let them think of him as a kind and magnanimous man. But I always knew the truth, and always hated him for it. And that is when I decided that I would do something in my life-as a lawyer, a policeman, whatever the world offered-to make sure that people like him would always be found out and punished.”

“Is that all?” Laleh asked, as if expecting some further revelation.

“What do you mean, ‘Is that all?’ Is that not enough?”

“Well, yes, it’s terrible. Inexcusable. But it was your father, not you.”

“It was a matter of our family’s honor , Laleh. Or its utter dishonor. Maybe some of those grasping people you work with would simply see it as the clever act of an opportunist, so why not make the best of it? But he stole from his own flesh and blood. It was a shame upon all of us, and by keeping his secret I became a part of that. With every tutor his money bought, I was tainted even more.”

“Your father’s right,” Sam said before he could stop himself. “I understand completely.”

Sam also understood that the age-old conflict between the values of the old and the young was playing out on the seat in front of him, here in a land where the new got newer by the minute. Not that Laleh wasn’t appalled by her grandfather’s actions. She simply didn’t see it as a binding stain upon later generations, or even her father. And while Sharaf had undoubtedly spoken too harshly of the people she worked among in Media City, she probably had grown a bit jaded from the ambition so often on display in the workplace. Sam certainly had, even if he had realized that only during the past few days.

Laleh was silent for a few moments more. Then she nodded.

“All right, then,” she said. “I understand why you have to continue. I also understand-finally-why you built our cousins a house on the family lot, so maybe you should tell Mom as well. But if, as you believe, our entire family shares this shame, then shouldn’t I also share the burden of removing it, if only by driving you to your next destination, maybe? Or making inquiries in places where you or Mr. Keller would be recognized?”

Sharaf rapidly shook his head.

“You see?” he said to Sam. “This is the folly of revealing family secrets, even to those you love. Now she will always have a wedge to involve herself. And she-”

The phone rang before he could say more, and when Sharaf saw the number he answered immediately. The conversation was in Arabic, but Sam could tell from the tone that it was welcome news. By the time Sharaf hung up, his mood was transformed.

“Laleh, I have a bargain to offer you.” He snapped the phone shut. “If I were to tell you that I know how to guarantee Mr. Keller’s safety for the rest of his stay in Dubai, and that you could even play a role in this action, would you agree to let me take the wheel?”

She tilted her head, as if trying to determine if this was a trick.

“All right. I’ll agree to that.”

“Good. In forty minutes, my old friend Mansour from the Maritime Police will be stopping by our house. I will drop you off a few blocks away so that you can be there to meet him, because I cannot afford to be seen there myself. If you then follow my instructions, by this evening he will be able to announce to the world that Mr. Keller here has been found dead in the waters of Dubai Creek. Mansour will even have a body to prove it, complete with Mr. Keller’s clothing and all the proper identification.”

“But-”

“Just say that you agree.”

“I agree.”

Sam was dumbfounded. Then his auditor’s brain began to assemble the pieces, and he smiled as they fell into place. Death, he decided, was going to be a pretty good thing.

“So that’s why you were soaking my clothes in a tub,” Sam said, after they dropped Laleh off. “And I’m guessing the tub is filled with, what, salt water?”

“Very good. But how did you know about the tub?”

“I saw it when Assad’s men came for me. I was out back looking for my wallet and spotted it through the window of the shed. But won’t you also need a body?”

“Mansour has one. It was found this morning. Some poor drunken unidentified tourist who fell off an abra into the creek five days ago. He was apparently traveling alone, with no friends and no next of kin. And now, as far as the government of Dubai is concerned, he is Sam Keller. I saw an item about him in the paper the first morning you were at our house. His body was still missing then. Witnesses had seen him slip into the water, but no one knew him and no one had come forward to report him missing. That’s when I took your clothes, pulled out the tub, and phoned Mansour.”

“And he agreed?”

“Spending a year together dodging sharks and the Indian coast guard tends to make you allies for life, just as with Ali. I knew Mansour would have jurisdiction whenever the creek finally decided to give back that poor fellow’s body.”

Sam shook his head, amazed by the audacity.

“It is called wasta , Mr. Keller, and it is how we do things here. I suppose to you it looks like corruption. To us it is a marketplace of favors and connections. Are things really so different in your world?”

“It’s just that, well, it sounds like something your father might have dreamed up. No disrespect intended.”

“None taken. I am quite aware of my inborn tendency for deviousness. That is why I am so committed to employing it for the greater good.”

“I’m not complaining. So what will they do, dress the body in my clothes?”

“I am sure it is too bloated and nibbled for that.” Sam winced. “Mansour’s men will throw away the real clothes and put yours in the property bag, along with your soggy passport and wallet.”

“What about dental records?”

“That will not be a concern until the American consulate ships the body home, which won’t happen for days, maybe weeks.”

“Hal Liffey will be the first one to see the paperwork. He and Nanette will probably have a drink to celebrate.”

“You are the one who should celebrate. No more looking over your shoulder for a Russian with a Makarov. Which is more than I can say for the poor man we’re about to visit. Rajpal Patel, the doorman from the Palace Hotel. He is hiding in Deira, on the far side of the creek.”

“Then shouldn’t we be heading south, to cross the bridge?”

Sharaf shook his head.

“By now Lieutenant Assad’s men may be looking for this car as well. We’ll park in the old quarter of Bastakiya, and make the crossing by abra.”

“Just like the dead tourist.”

“Only with better results, I hope.”

The waterfront in Bastakiya, the oldest part of the city, swarmed with activity, making it the perfect place to blend in with the crowd. Abras came and went from the docks like a procession of airport taxis, jostling to and fro in the cloudy green chop as their big diesel engines popped and grumbled like Harleys. They were low-slung, narrow craft, built of thick wooden beams the size and color of railroad ties. Passengers sat on a two-sided bench that ran down the spine of the open deck, facing outward, ten to a side. You paid the mate a dirham and stepped aboard the rocking deck. As soon as every seat was filled, the skipper revved the engine in a billow of blue smoke and pulled away, bumping the scuffed hulls of other abras until he reached open water.

Sam made a move to hop aboard the newest arrival, but Sharaf put out a hand.

“I am looking for someone,” he said. “Patience.”