Dan Fesperman - Layover in Dubai

“And one was Persian. The waitress said the Russian was Mafia, but she says that anytime a rich Russian comes here. But it made her scared. That is why I had to pay her a fifty, and when I began to think about it later I was scared, too. So I took the recorder home. I did not want to leave it anywhere around the hotel where it might be found, especially not in my locker. My only worry was what I would do when Mr. Hatcher came. He would expect delivery, and I knew I would not be paid unless he could be sure I had results.”

“So that’s why you memorized the information for April fourteenth, to assure him you had the goods?”

Patel nodded again.

“Why that part?”

“On the tape, it is the only time they are speaking English. The rest of the time they are only speaking Russian. I don’t speak Russian.”

“Is that why he paid you in the lobby, but took nothing in return?”

“Yes. Five hundred dollars. Half the total. At the moment I mentioned April fourteenth, he seemed very happy. He said he would pay me the rest when I gave him the recorder.”

“No wonder he was short on cash when we got to the York,” Sam said. “But he had already mentioned the date earlier that night, at the Alpine bar. That’s when he called it the day of reckoning.”

“So he knew it was important, but perhaps not why. Or not exactly why,” Sharaf said. “This recording, sir, when did you deliver it?”

Patel shook his head.

“I took it to work with me the next afternoon. Mr. Hatcher was supposed to come pick it up. But when I reached my locker, the bouncer from the earlier shift told me a policeman was waiting for me at the rope. When I looked through the door I saw he was one of the men from the photos.”

“Lieutenant Assad?” Sharaf said.

“Yes. I knew I was in trouble, so I left by the back. There was a police van with four more men in the main drive, so I crossed the hotel grounds to the beach and walked a mile along the water before cutting back to a bus stop on the main road. When I got home my family said the police had been there as well. That is when I came here, with Khalifa’s help.”

“Did you bring the recorder with you?”

Patel eyed them carefully. Sam held his breath.

“It is hidden,” Patel said. “It is what cost me my job. And if you want it, you must pay the other five hundred dollars that was promised.”

Patel folded his arms to indicate that his offer was final. Sharaf glanced at Sam.

“I’ve got a few hundred dirhams,” Sam said, “but that’s about it.”

“Nonsense. We’re not paying this little crook.”

Sharaf stood suddenly, then caught himself, swaying as he had before, which only served to make him angrier. Steadying himself, he pointed a finger at Patel.

“Here is how it will work,” he said evenly. Patel sat impassively, arms folded. “You will bring us the tape, here and now. In exchange, I will not tell Lieutenant Assad where you’ve gone. That is even more valuable than five hundred dollars, don’t you think?”

Patel unlocked his arms and lashed out.

“But you promised Khalifa!”

“Yes. But I, too, am a policeman.” Sharaf flashed his ID and flipped open his cell phone. “And with a single call, sir, I can summon an entire squadron to this doorstep within five minutes. So you will retrieve the recorder or else I will phone my colleagues. It is your choice.”

Sharaf began punching in numbers, each beep sounding like a tiny alarm bell.

“Stop!” Patel rose from his chair. “All right, you will have it, then! I will get it for you now!”

“We will accompany you.”

Patel flung up his hands in exasperation.

“As you wish, jackals!”

It was in the next room, stored behind a baseboard panel, which Patel loosened with a table knife. He sulkily handed it over.

Sharaf studied the buttons a moment, then pressed play. There was a rustling sound, then the clicking of footsteps, followed by a jarring thump as a woman’s voice said in English, “Some refreshments for you. And your drinks, of course.”

There were three light thunks on the table. Ice clinked in a glass as someone took a thirsty first sip.

“Thank you,” a man said in English.

“Hal Liffey,” Sam said. The mere sound of his voice made him angry.

The footsteps of the waitress receded, and Liffey got down to business.

“Two items, gentlemen. And I’d appreciate if both were reported promptly and precisely to your superiors. The first and most important is that our corporate sponsor informs me that the details are complete for the first major transaction, set for four-fourteen. No more dry runs, this one’s for real. Ready for the particulars?”

There was a pause, followed by a muffled sound of movement and a few stray beeps.

“I don’t believe it,” Sam said. “They’re getting out their BlackBerrys.”

Liffey spoke clearly and slowly enough for everyone to log the details. He said exactly what Patel had repeated in his recitation:

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

Two muffled voices answered, “No,” then Liffey spoke again.

“More people are coming into the bar. British, I think. Perhaps we should conduct the remainder of our business in Russian. Partly, of course, in deference to the man who helped bring us together. A toast, then, to the Tsar.”

There was a clink of glasses. The next voice was an outburst of Russian from one of the others. Sharaf checked his watch, switched off the recorder, and popped it into his pants pocket.

“We will listen to the rest later, when I have time to translate. For now we’re due at the Beacon of Light, where, if my guess is correct, we’ll find out more about their payload.”

“Fifty women,” Sam said, “and they’ll be arriving like livestock in two days. We better move fast.”

Among the high-wattage villas of Dubai’s Al Safa neighborhood, the Beacon of Light stood out more like a guttering candle-three stories of smudged stucco on a shaggy lawn, with a dented blue van at the curb.

The neighbors’ bigger gripe was the procession of sullen men who regularly cruised past or, worse, parked in the rear alley, idling their engines with the windows up while waiting for runaway spouses to show their faces at the windows.

The shelter regularly employed a guard, but on this particular afternoon Sharaf was surprised to see two of them lurking beneath the drooping palms, and both were heavily armed. They shouldered automatic weapons like island defenders awaiting an amphibious assault. Sharaf heard the unmistakable click of a safety as Sam and he approached.

“Easy,” Sharaf called out, showing his hands. “We’re friends.”

He seemed to be saying that everywhere lately. “We’re expected,” Sam added.

A guard patted them down and escorted them up the steps. A woman of uncertain nationality answered their knock. Looming behind her was a third armed man.

“We have an appointment with Mrs. Halami,” Sharaf said.

“Wait here.”

On the way over from Deira, Sharaf had tried to prepare Sam for the local phenomenon known as Yvette Halami. She was a Frenchwoman who had married an Emirati and moved to Dubai during the early years of the economic boom. A converted Muslim, she covered her head but never held her tongue, especially on the issue of how women were treated in Dubai.

She chain-smoked, knocked back espressos all day, conducted much of her business in English, and was forever answering a cell phone that rattled and rang like one long emergency. Her combative nature generated like-minded press coverage. Depending on which local paper you read, she was either a selfless advocate for the voiceless or a grandstanding loudmouth whose main goal was to embarrass men in general, and Emirati men in particular. Several of Sharaf’s colleagues couldn’t utter her name without cursing.