Dan Fesperman - Layover in Dubai

Assad: Better than that. Members of a… a special task force which… which only handles these sorts of cases. So you see? Already I have told you a very big secret. Already I am having to trust you before you must trust me. You will be in the very best hands. But can’t we meet a little sooner?

Basma: Seven o’clock .

Assad: Very well. Seven. But you must do one thing for me so that I will know I can trust you. Because now I am the one in danger. So if you cannot tell me the location until half an hour before our meeting, then I must ask that we arrive at the same time, both of us entering together, right at seven. That way I will know this is not some sort of ambush, or some trick you are playing on the police. Understood?

Basma: I don’t know .

The girl sounded flustered, as if she hadn’t counted on this twist. Nanette wondered if she had been trying to consult with someone else in the room with her.

Assad: This is how it must be done, Basma. Understand? Seven o’clock at your location, that is fine, I agree. But no one arriving a second earlier, so that we will both be able to feel secure. Okay?

Basma: I guess .

Assad: You guess?

Basma: Okay .

Assad: Very good, then. I will speak with you again at six thirty . Correct?

Basma: Correct .

Assad: At this number?

Basma: Yes .

Assad: I will be waiting. And do not worry. You will be in safe hands from now on. I give you my personal assurance as an officer of the law .

Basma: Thank you .

Assad: Of course .

“Don’t you find it suspicious that she phoned you?” Nanette asked.

“If she had requested me by name, yes. But I checked afterward with the switchboard. All she asked for was the man in charge of vice, so they connected her to me. And now she will be playing right into our hands.”

“You’re the one that’s being played, Assad, don’t you see? That’s why she didn’t tell you the meeting place. Waiting until the last minute is part of the setup.”

He waved a hand dismissively.

“She’s scared. She’s only being careful, just as you’d expect.”

“Well, I’m not going to your damn meeting, I can tell you that.”

“I arranged that for you! You said it was what you wanted!”

“Only on my terms, not hers. Set foot in the door of whatever place she chooses and we’ll be history, all of us.”

“You are being unreasonable, a silly and stubborn woman who only wants things her way!”

“I am being prudent, Assad, but don’t fret. Not yet. You can still take charge of this situation, you know, in a way that will please everyone and will still take her off the board.”

Assad snorted. He seemed in no mood to listen further. But at this point Nanette crossed her legs and turned slightly in her chair, offering a view in profile that she knew Assad liked best, for the tightness of her blouse and the way her long skirt hugged her hips, and, never to be discounted, for its sidelong view of the fullness of her auburn hair.

It instantly made him receptive enough to at least hear out her idea, which, with Liffey’s persuasive assistance, he eventually accepted as their plan of action.

And now, here she was, down to her finishing touches of eyeliner, mascara, and lipstick. In an hour they would set things in motion, and then she would convince the others to follow her remaining plans to the letter.

Would women be hurt as a result? She loathed how that question kept popping up in her mind, because the answer, of course, was yes. But women were always hurt, weren’t they? Especially the ones without the brains or the guts to fend for themselves. Besides, what would really be more hurtful to a bunch of starving young rustics in Iraq-leaving them mired in the turmoil of war or removing them to the relative safety of steady hours and a steady income, even if they earned it on their backs? To her the answer was obvious. At least in Dubai they might have a future, a buyout, even advancement.

She stood, popping her lips and appraising herself in the mirror from several angles. She saw competence, seduction, a hint of menace, and even a touch of Yankee common sense. A woman most any man would believe he could rely on, even as he angled for a quick fuck.

Bring them on. Nanette Weaver was ready.

On a quiet residential street in Al Manara, Charlie Hatcher’s hour of reckoning was nigh.

Mansour’s surveillance teams were in place-two men in front, two in back. Inside the empty villa, recorders were ready to roll. Dusk approached like a veil of sand.

Two blocks away, Sharaf and Keller sat in Laleh’s BMW, taking turns with a pair of borrowed binoculars. Sharaf, cell phone open in his lap, checked the display for any last-minute messages. None. From a few streets over, the muezzin of a neighborhood mosque began droning the sundown call to prayer-a few minutes late, truth be told. It felt as if God was signaling that the drama was about to commence.

“Shouldn’t you be praying?” Keller asked.

“Now? I’d need to wash myself first. I’d have to get out of the car and put down a rug, kneeling and mumbling while Assad and his people came and went. Don’t you think that might be a little conspicuous?”

“Sorry. Stupid question. I was just hoping for any kind of edge.”

“You believe that God takes a hand in police matters?”

“Not really. I guess I figured it might make you feel more confident.”

“Do I not seem confident already?”

“Not really. You haven’t all day. It’s like you know the whole thing is doomed.”

“It is not a sense of doom, Mr. Keller. Just an abeyance of hope. My way of holding my breath until it is time to make our move. Then I will exhale.”

Actually, he had been feeling doomed. The plan was a throw-together, a hasty improvisation. And what was worse, all of them knew it. But no one had come up with an alternative, and so momentum had carried the day. Ready or not, something was about to happen.

So far, at least, there was reason for cautious optimism, especially after Laleh’s success in convincing Basma to participate. They had all listened together to the girl’s phone call, which Laleh had taped on Patel’s digital recorder.

“She did well,” Sharaf remarked afterward. “Obviously you handled her perfectly.”

Laleh seemed affronted by the idea she’d been manipulative. She frowned and folded her arms.

“I don’t much like Assad’s idea for simultaneous arrival,” Sharaf said, “but I suppose there is no way around it. It will be best if Basma arrives by taxi.”

“I’ll need to be with her when she departs, of course,” Laleh said.

“Not necessary. You can just phone her with the information.”

“The phone there isn’t secure. She was using my cell, and she will need it again to call Assad at six thirty. Then I will arrange the taxi and make sure she is safely on her way.”

Sharaf didn’t like this wrinkle, but there seemed to be little choice. His daughter was the only one of them who knew Basma’s location. She had again painted him into a corner, which meant that her further involvement was indispensable.

Laleh left the room without another word. She didn’t even glance at Sam, and the young man seemed crestfallen. Once she was gone, Sharaf was more candid about his concerns.

“Stop worrying, Anwar,” Ali said. “Assad was planning this completely on the fly, even more than we are. We’ll have every advantage.”

“Maybe so. But I’ve made a career of being underestimated. And I worry that now we are underestimating them.”