Dan Fesperman - Layover in Dubai

“Oh, yes. We wish.”

So Patel told them all he could remember, which was considerable. His account dated back to a slow evening at the Kasbar three months earlier, when Charlie Hatcher had first appeared at the roped-off entrance. He had approached Patel with a conspiratorial grin and a folded hundred-dollar bill, and as Patel related the details Sam could almost hear his old colleague’s voice supplying the dialogue along the way, right down to the offhand language Charlie would have used to pitch his diabolical offer:

“Name’s Charlie Hatcher, old son. I’m with Pfluger Klaxon. Technically that allows me entry on our corporate membership, although I’m afraid you won’t find my name in your big red book. So this token of my appreciation will have to do instead, provided you’re free for a little conversation once I’ve settled in with a drink, yes?”

He handed over the bill. Patel pocketed the money and returned the smile.

“Of course, sir. As long as no one is needing my services for a few moments.”

“Absolutely, old son. Wouldn’t want to jeopardize your career in hospitality management.”

By the time Patel slid into the booth, Charlie was ready with a proposition.

“First off, I have some photos for you.”

He laid a sheet of paper faceup on the table with five Photostat images. Three were in color-one of a man with an American flag in the background, one of a woman with striking auburn hair, attractive in a stern sort of way, and one of a rather beefy man on a busy sidewalk. The other two, in black and white, seemed to have been copied from newspaper photos. One was captioned in Arabic, the other in the Cyrillic characters of Russian. Both were men, and one was a cop. No names had been typed in for any of the five.

“If it’s not too much trouble, I’d like for you to keep an eye out for these people, and make a note of whenever one of them visits. What time, how many in their party, plus the name used to make the reservation. You’d be generously compensated, of course. In addition, next time you get a spare moment I’d appreciate it if you could look back through your reservation book for, oh, let’s say six months, and let me know of any previous appointments made under the same name. Especially if that name matches one of these.”

Charlie slid forward an index card. Five names were typed in a neat column.

Patel frowned and fidgeted. Customers occasionally asked for his help in acquiring the temporary services of women, and he was always ready with a few leads. In one or two lucky instances he had later received a small percentage from the beneficiary. But this request seemed more serious, and much riskier.

“I am very sorry, sir, but the privacy interests of our guests require that-”

“Please, old son. Hear me out. I’d very, very much like to make this arrangement work to your advantage.” Charlie slipped a second hundred-dollar bill onto the table. “And this would only be the beginning-let’s say, one-tenth of your total compensation package? So consider this a down payment on your loyalty. Besides, one of these people is even a coworker of mine. All you’re really providing is a little enhanced corporate security. If you prefer, just think of yourself as a Pfluger Klaxon consultant.”

Patel’s frown deepened. He rubbed his palms on his knees and glanced toward the entrance to make sure no one was awaiting entry. Then he leaned across the table and lowered his voice.

“I see your point, sir. Perhaps it would not be such a serious breach of our policies if I was to, as you say, participate as a consultant.”

“That’s the spirit. One more item, then, and we’re done.”

Charlie produced the transaction’s pièce de résistance from a briefcase. It was a small blue ceramic bowl, virtually identical to the ones the Kasbar’s waitresses always brought to the table for their patrons, except Charlie’s wasn’t filled with the requisite helping of pistachios and smoked almonds. Moving as deftly as a magician, Charlie turned the bowl upside down just long enough to reveal a small silver item implanted in the bowl’s recessed bottom.

“Did you happen to see that, old son?”

“What was it?”

“Digital recorder. Smaller than an iPod, but easier to operate. Keep this bowl of ours in some safe and handy place until you need it. Your locker, for instance, where you change into that fine-looking uniform. You have a locker here, don’t you?”

“Yes. In the back. But-”

“Excellent. The next time any of these people walk in, all you have to do is retrieve this bowl, flip the switch, then slip a twenty to some waitress so she will deliver it to the table. Along with the usual refreshments, of course. Like so.” He set the bowl down with a solid thunk, then took an almond from their own bowl and popped it in his mouth. “That’s the real beauty of our arrangement, don’t you see? Only one part of it is dicey, and a waitress handles that for you.”

Patel knew by then that he was in over his head, but the idea of making a thousand dollars in only a few minutes of work had taken hold of his imagination. So he sighed and fretted, and again rubbed his hands on his knees. Then he nodded, as if to seal the deal, even though he never mustered enough courage to actually say yes.

“Very good. Of course, if the recorder comes back blank, your compensation will be adjusted accordingly. Results, old son. That’s what you’re being paid for, just as with any consultant. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Until next time, then? Say, a month or two, or maybe even longer, when, if you have everything waiting for me, I’ll pay you in full?”

“Yes, sir. A month or two. I will try to have your results.”

Charlie stood up from the table and departed the Kasbar, not to return until the night he showed up with Sam Keller at his side.

“Those photos,” Sharaf said, “and this list. Did you keep them?”

Patel nodded.

He reached into his pocket. They were creased and folded like old money. Sharaf took the page and the card and smoothed them out in his lap while Sam leaned closer. The color photos of Nanette Weaver and Hal Liffey seemed to have been printed straight from the Internet, from the State Department and Pfluger Klaxon Web sites. The color shot of Iranian mobster Mohsen Hedayat was clear enough, but looked as if it had been taken with a cell phone, on the sidewalk outside the Iranian Club, a thriving social club in the Oud Metha area of Dubai. The photos of Anatoly Rybakov and Lieutenant Hamad Assad had been copied from newspapers. All five of their names were typed on the crumpled index card.

Sam could tell Sharaf was trying to rein in his excitement.

“These people,” Sharaf said, as calmly as if he were asking about Patel’s family, “I take it that they all met at some point later, and you were able to tape them?”

Patel shook his head.

“No. Just one.”

“One? How can only one person hold a meeting?”

Patel shrugged, as if that wasn’t his concern.

“There were three people, but only one was from those pictures. His name was on the list. Mr. Hal Liffey.”

“Who were the other two?”

Patel shrugged again.

“Mr. Liffey did not include their names with his reservation. All that was recorded in the book was that he had requested a table for three.”

“So it might have been two of the others, then, but you’re just not sure?”

“No. I am sure. It was not the woman, and it was not any of the other three.”

“But you taped them anyway?”

“Just as Mr. Hatcher said, except I had to give the waitress a fifty. She said those people were too scary, especially the Russian.”

“One of them was a Russian?”