Dan Fesperman - Layover in Dubai

Almost any native-born woman would have long ago faded into the background against that kind of opposition. She seemed to revel in it, which only infuriated her enemies more.

Sharaf had largely been won over to Yvette’s cause by Laleh, and also by the assault victims he had interviewed over the years at the shelter. He had seen firsthand what happened when violent husbands, unpunished, were allowed to reclaim their wives from the law simply by signing a form promising they’d never do it again. He knew of one man who had done this eight times; he had seen all eight copies of the form-but no criminal convictions-stored neatly in the fellow’s police file.

Sharaf was ambivalent about Halami herself. He believed she was one reason his daughter had become so rebellious. For every hour Laleh volunteered at the Beacon of Light-preparing meals, manning phones, directing media strategy-she seemed to emerge that much sharper around the edges.

Halami appeared from around a corner, cell phone in her left hand, cigarette in her right. Her greeting was typically abrupt. No names, no salutations, just a blunt question in a burst of cigarette smoke.

“Were you followed?”

“If we had been, we’d be in custody by now,” Sharaf answered. “What’s with all the security?”

“You wouldn’t ask if you’d seen some of the goons who’ve been coming around. And I’m not talking about husbands. Pimps and their muscle. A very bad business.”

“Does this have anything to do with-?”

“Please. Don’t mention her name here. Follow me.”

She led them past her office to a makeshift canteen, where one woman was reading and another was taking popcorn from a microwave. Halami spoke to them in Arabic, and they exited without a word. Then she lit a fresh cigarette and responded to a beep by checking a text on her phone.

“Some flunky from the Ministry of Health was in my office yesterday asking about the same girl. Immigration came the day before that. Same name. Basma, Basma, Basma.” She moved her right hand like a yakking puppet. “For all I know, one or both of those fellows planted something near my desk to listen in, so I figured it was safer talking here. Any idea who’s behind all this interest?”

The heads of both agencies were allies of Assad’s, and rivals of the Minister, but Sharaf didn’t want to get bogged down in politics.

“The same people who are making life miserable for us, I’d imagine.”

“You know, it’s a good thing you mentioned Charlie Hatcher, or I’d have suspected you were one of them.” She gestured toward Sam. “Who’s this one?”

Sam answered for himself.

“Sam Keller. I was a friend of Charlie’s.”

“I am sorry for your loss. Charlie was our friend. Why are you dressed like that?”

Sam looked to Sharaf for help.

“The same reason I’m out of uniform. Let’s just say that we’ve had an interesting few days. Where is Basma?”

Halami’s phone rang. She answered instantly, ignoring them.

“Yes? Of course, but where? Ethiopia is my guess. They’re from villages on the brink of starvation. Someone puts up an Emirates Air poster with a nice photo of Dubai, and all you have to do is offer a plane ticket. An easy recruitment. Sure. Keep me posted.”

No sooner had she hung up than the phone rang again.

“Yes? Where? Good, very good.” She laughed with relish. “Another one bites the dust. We should have a party. Good. Later, then.”

She hung up. Sharaf was getting annoyed.

“Could you maybe shut that damn thing off for a minute?”

“No. They are my clients, Anwar. You’re just a cop, even though your daughter is one of the world’s great human beings, spoiled or not.”

“What can you tell me about Basma?”

“Our Jeanne d’Arc, you mean, if you will pardon the Christian metaphor. Sometimes I am more French than Muslim.”

“I noticed. Why a martyr? Is she dead?”

“Alive, but only by her own wits. I will leave it to Basma to answer your other question. Where did you hear her name? I doubt Charlie would have told you.”

Sam spoke up.

“It was in Charlie’s datebook, with a number for this place. She was listed next to Tatiana Tereshkova.”

“Another of our contacts from the trade. But I am worried about her, too. I can’t seem to find her.”

“Found, I’m afraid,” Sharaf said. “Several days ago.”

Halami lowered her cigarette.

“Dead?”

“She’d been shot. They dumped her in the desert.”

He said it more harshly than necessary, the very stereotype of the uncaring cop, and he felt bad about it as soon as he saw Halami’s reaction. She put a hand to her mouth and emitted a small cry, blinking twice. Her phone beeped, but she didn’t even glance at it.

“It’s where they take all of them,” she said quietly. “They just throw them on the ground and leave them for the birds. Tatiana was one of the Russian originals, from those Aeroflot caravans in the early nineties. Worked her way up through the system, then got disgusted with it. She was the reason Basma got away, she and Charlie. I suppose someone found out.”

“She was with Hatcher when he was shot.”

“Oh, dear. I didn’t know.”

“Hardly anyone does. And I doubt you will read about her in the papers anytime soon, not if some of my colleagues have their way.”

“Which is why I cannot trust you with the knowledge of Basma’s whereabouts. Not if they are after you as well.”

“Then I suppose we will never find out who killed Tatiana.”

She eyed them carefully.

“Charlie was the only man Basma trusted. Ever since he was killed she has been certain she will be next. That’s why we are hiding her. But she will not speak to any man. It’s a fact. You will have to deal with it.”

“We’re operating under a deadline. Finding a suitable female officer will not be as easy as you think.”

Halami smiled ruefully and flicked ashes into a Styrofoam cup.

“You know, Anwar, for such an intelligent man, you are sometimes a bumbling oaf. Because we both know of a woman who is not only suitable but is also readily available, and someone I trust.”

Sharaf saw where she was headed, and moved to cut her off.

“That is not an option. Laleh does not participate in my business.”

“More’s the pity. She is brilliant and compassionate-the very combination necessary to induce Basma to tell her story. You say she is not an option? Sir, she is your only option. Like it or not, she is already a part of this business, simply by her role in ours.”

Sharaf was exasperated. First Laleh, now Halami-both of them ordering him around, and taking events well beyond his control. Fine, let them. Why not just walk out of this place while his pride was intact? With the Minister’s help, he might still organize a team to raid Monday’s delivery at Jebel Ali.

The problem with that approach was that the scheme’s principals-Assad, the mobsters, the American woman-would be able to scramble right out of the net. He only had Liffey on tape, and even what he had heard of that conversation was vague enough for Liffey to argue that he was talking about some other commodity altogether, and with another bribe it might even be convincing to a judge. Sharaf still needed to dive deeper.

The other problem, greater yet, was that Halami was right. It was midafternoon Saturday. Delivery was Monday. There was no time for other options. Laleh was the perfect choice. The cop in him knew this, even as the father continued to shut his eyes and shake his head.

He was jolted from thought by the sound of loud pounding on the shelter’s front entrance. Halami moved to a window and flicked back a curtain, frowning. Then a woman poked her head into the canteen from the hallway.