Dan Fesperman - Layover in Dubai

Three boats later, Sharaf muttered, “Okay,” and they climbed aboard. This boat didn’t look any different from the others, but the skipper nodded toward Sharaf as they eased into the channel. Glancing around him, Sam realized the obvious advantage of this form of transport. You got a good long look at every fellow passenger, meaning no one could follow without being noticed. It was clear that no Russians were aboard.

The abra headed downstream with the incoming tide, taking them alongside the bigger dhows that still carried spices and textiles across the gulf from Iran. They, too, had timbered hulls, with jutting bowsprits and flush transoms that lent a piratical air. Despite the new high-rises lining much of the opposite shore, it wasn’t hard to imagine how the creek must have looked when Sharaf was a boy, barefoot and wiry. These waters ran straight from his heart, a key to everything about him, and Sam watched the man closely as they made the crossing.

When they reached the busy wharf in Deira, Sharaf again held out his arm in abeyance as the other passengers stepped ashore. The skipper nodded, and steered the abra back into the current. A few minutes later they pulled alongside a separate wharf that wasn’t part of the usual taxi service.

“Thank you, my friend,” Sharaf said as he and Sam climbed ashore. The captain merely revved his engine in reply, and headed upstream for a new load of return passengers.

“More wasta?” Sam asked.

“I have known his family since I was a child. He knows that in my work I prefer privacy.”

“What does he get in return?”

“Please, Mr. Keller. You cannot be privy to all my secrets.”

The moment they began walking, Sharaf stopped suddenly and grabbed Sam. He swayed for an instant like a stout palm in a stiff breeze.

“You all right?”

“A little dizzy. A little nauseous. I think it was the motion of the water, plus the lump on my head. I am fine now.”

“Maybe it would feel better with a little halothane. We’ll be just great if anyone comes after us.”

They moved at a deliberate pace to accommodate Sharaf’s wooziness, and found the address above a sagging jewelry store in a narrow cobbled alley, not far from Deira’s Gold Souk. Being with Sharaf helped ward off the vendors who had swarmed him during his shopping trip the week before. Or maybe being unshaven and ridiculously attired made him look too impoverished to bother with.

They climbed a dim, fetid stairwell to an unmarked steel door. Sam was reminded anew that he hadn’t shaved or showered in several days, which made it all the more amazing that Laleh had kissed him.

“Pay attention,” Sharaf said. “You look like you’re in one of those halothane dreams. This man may try to run when we announce ourselves. You need to be ready to move quickly.”

They knocked twice before a girl’s voice timidly called out in Hindi. Sharaf answered in kind. There was a click as she unlatched the lock. When she drew back the door, Sharaf jammed his foot in the opening and said in English, “We come as friends. We are here to see Rajpal Patel.”

There was an immediate flurry of activity from inside-raised voices, the sound of a toppling chair, the groan of a window sash being raised. Sharaf, dizzy or not, burst inside, knocking the girl onto her rump. Sam followed him to a back room, where Sharaf grabbed a man’s legs just as they were about to disappear over the windowsill. Two young boys ran to the fellow’s rescue and began pounding Sharaf on the back with tiny fists. Sam tried to peel them away, only to have a third one race forward to swat his ankles with a broomstick. The girl screamed, loud enough for neighbors to hear. But Sharaf was winning his game of tug-of-war, and within seconds the squirming Patel fell back through the window as everyone collapsed in a heap on the floor.

“Please!” Sharaf shouted. He closed his eyes and put a hand to his forehead, as if to stop it from spinning. “We are here as friends of Khalifa, the owner of your family’s shop. We are the enemy of your enemies, Mr. Patel!”

Patel, flat on his back, raised his hands in submission, which instantly calmed his corps of underage reinforcements.

“I was worried you were the police,” he said, eyeing Sharaf warily. He didn’t seem sure what to make of Sam. “Do you really know Khalifa?”

“I met him in the Central Jail. I was released only this morning, and with any luck they will release him as well, along with Nabil. Don’t worry, Khalifa has kept your secret from the authorities. But he gave me your address because he knows I can help.”

“And who are you?”

“Someone who is investigating the policemen. This man with me is a friend of Mr. Hatcher’s, the American who came to see you at the Palace Hotel. They were there together the other night, not long before Mr. Hatcher was killed.”

Patel’s eyes widened. He scrambled to his feet, as if ready to again bolt out the window.

“Mr. Hatcher was killed?”

“I am afraid so.”

This set off a round of eye rolling and a few curses in Hindi. Patel brusquely ordered the children to leave the room, and gestured toward a sagging bed while he stood by the open window. Sharaf and Sam reluctantly took a seat.

“How do I know you are not here to kill me?”

“If that were true, Mr. Patel, you would be dead by now.”

“Then who killed Mr. Hatcher?”

“A couple of Russians. And now those Russians are dead. We can only make the killings stop if you tell us why Mr. Hatcher paid you that night in the lobby.”

Patel looked again at Sam, and the light of recognition dawned in his eyes.

“I remember you now. You were by the front desk, watching us. He said not to worry, that you were harmless.”

“A little too harmless,” Sam answered, “or I could have helped him. He gave you money, then he wrote something down. What was it you told him?”

Patel bit his lip, as if debating how much to reveal.

“I told him what was coming on April fourteenth, this Monday.”

“We would like you to tell us as well,” Sharaf said. “Provided you still remember.”

“Of course, I remember. I had worked very hard to memorize it. I have a head for numbers, you see, so I am able to do such things.”

Patel then tilted his head as if searching his memory. His next words emerged in a monotone, like a student reciting important dates in history.

“Payload of fifty, I-M-O, nine-zero-one-six-seven-four-two. Jebel Ali terminal two, gate six, lot seventeen, row four.”

The recitation complete, Patel looked back at their faces.

“That is all. That is what I told him.”

“Of course,” Sharaf said. “An IMO number. They’re assigned to container ships.”

“And this one’s arriving Monday at Jebel Ali,” Sam said, “with a payload of fifty.”

Finally, Charlie’s scribbled numbers and letters made perfect sense. No code at all. Just a lot of shipping information in abbreviated form.

“But fifty what?” Sam asked. “Tons? Kilos? Weapons?”

“Women,” Sharaf said. “For the flesh trade. Their new pipeline, now that the airport’s under a crackdown.”

“In ship containers?”

“Someone smuggled in a few boys that way for use as camel jockeys last year, back when the government was shutting down that trade. Maybe that’s where they got the idea. The other numbers must be where the containers will be stored after unloading. In some freight lot at terminal two.”

Sharaf turned back toward Patel.

“Thank you, Mr. Patel. But where did that information come from?”

“From the recording.”

“What kind of recording?”

“The tape. Of those people who met in the Kasbar a month ago. I can explain, if you wish.”