Dan Fesperman - Layover in Dubai

“Relax. Mansour and I have every possibility covered.”

Ali placed a reassuring hand on Sharaf’s back, then returned to the kitchen to continue preparations by telephone.

“Mr. Keller,” Sharaf said, “I am afraid we will need your presence at our little affair.”

“I wouldn’t miss it.”

“My preference would be to keep you out of harm’s way. Killing you by proxy is bad enough. But it may be up to you and me to ensure that nothing happens to this poor girl, Basma. Laleh would never forgive me. Worse, she would never forgive herself.”

“Won’t Mansour’s men be looking out for her?”

“They will be preoccupied with springing the trap. The death of a young Iraqi with no passport, I am sorry to say, would be of little official consequence. So that will be our job, to move her to safety as quickly as possible. Do you know how to use a gun?”

The question seemed to floor him.

“I, uh, took a class once. Courtesy of Nanette, in fact. She ran a bunch of us through an executive survival course, with lessons on escape and evasion, that kind of thing. Part of it was firearms instruction.”

“Ali has procured these for our use.”

Sharaf took a bag off the kitchen table. No kebabs, this time. Just a pair of Beretta handguns. He handed one to Sam. Sturdy and compact. But heavy-that’s what never failed to surprise him about guns, no matter how often he handled them.

“Careful, it’s loaded.”

“I wasn’t a very good shot.”

“But you will at least have the element of surprise. To them you will be a ghost. Sam Keller, risen from the dead.”

“An avenging angel. Sounds good.”

It made them smile, until Sam again hefted the gun and nearly dropped it in the process. And now they were in place, watching the street from Laleh’s BMW, waiting for the arrival of the last key players.

The phone rang.

“Sharaf.”

“Anwar, I think it’s working.” It was Mansour.

“You see them?”

“Not yet. But the container ship, the Global Star , I’m told its arrival has been delayed. Engine trouble is the cover story. Not due until tomorrow now. They must already be resorting to contingency plans.”

“Good. Basma’s phone call spooked them. Keep me posted if you see anything.”

He hung up and told Sam the news.

“If they’re that scared, do you think they’ll shoot her on sight?”

It was the same thought that had occurred to Sharaf far too many times already. But he offered the same answer he had kept giving himself.

“That would violate their own protocol. No, they won’t shoot her on sight, not as long as your Miss Weaver has her way, and she is still in town. Room 408 of the Shangri-La as of this morning. She will insist on a full debriefing, and that is what will make our case.”

“If you say so.”

Sharaf wished Sam hadn’t made that remark. Certainly the operation wasn’t foolproof-no operation was-but with their manpower and positioning it seemed as airtight as possible. Why, then, did the coffee from an hour earlier keep sluicing through his plumbing like acid, bubbling and grumbling? He checked the dashboard clock. 6:50.

“Here comes Assad!” Sam said. “Police van, far end of the block.”

“He’s early, but that’s hardly a surprise. Once Basma called with the location he must have left right away.”

They watched the van slide into a curbside spot directly in front of the villa. Sam still held the binoculars.

“Is anyone with him?” Sharaf asked.

“Yes. There’s a driver and a passenger up front. I’m assuming one of them is Assad. Hard to tell through the smoked glass.”

Sharaf looked back over his shoulder, then again peered down the block toward the villa. No further traffic was in sight.

“Where are the others?” he asked.

“Back of the van, maybe?”

“Hard to imagine the Tsar and Hedayat agreeing to be hauled around like a sack of dates, or even your Miss Weaver.”

“Maybe they’re coming later, after Assad gives the all clear.”

“Maybe.”

Or maybe Sharaf was trying to convince himself that things were still going according to plan. The coffee now felt like it was on the verge of rushing back up his esophagus.

Nothing more happened for the next six minutes. The van simply sat there, while Sharaf watched the digital display of the dashboard clock as closely as if it were linked to the workings of the cosmos. No sooner had it switched to 6:56 than a taxi came up from behind them, headed toward the villa. A woman in a black abaya sat in the back.

“It’s Basma,” Sam said. “Here we go.”

“Give me those,” Sharaf said, fumbling for the binoculars with sweaty palms. The neck strap got caught on Sam’s ears before Sharaf pulled it free. He adjusted the focus and tracked the taxi to the curb. He could make out Basma’s form through the back window as she hunched forward to pay the driver.

“Merciful God. I hope Laleh gave her enough dirhams for the fare.”

The door opened. Basma stepped out. Sharaf watched through the binoculars as she looked around uncertainly. Something was wrong, he thought. Terribly wrong. But he wasn’t sure what until he noticed Basma’s spiked heels. Red. Stylish. The very pair that he hated most. Then he noted the polished gait of her walk as she started off down the sidewalk, like that of a confident young businesswoman.

“It’s Laleh!” he shouted. “My God, the stupid fool! It’s my damned daughter out there!”

“Shit!” Sam gasped. He, too, saw it now.

Sharaf reached for the door handle, then thought better of it, his mind moving in five directions at once. A door opened on the police van, and a cop in a khaki uniform stepped onto the street. Not Assad, but Sergeant Habash, for God’s sake. From around the corner at the far end of the block, an ambulance careened into view, red bubble flashing in time with Sharaf’s heartbeat.

“This isn’t right!” he shouted. “We can’t let this happen!”

Sharaf unlatched the door just as Sergeant Habash grabbed Laleh and shoved her toward the braking ambulance. For a horrifying moment Sharaf was certain Habash was going to throw his daughter beneath the wheels. Instead there was a screech of tires. Habash reached down and punched something into Laleh’s thigh. She went limp almost immediately.

Sharaf ran up the street as fast as he could, too winded to even shout her name. Rear doors swung open on the ambulance and Habash bundled Laleh aboard as arms reached out from the inside. The doors slammed shut. She had been swallowed whole. Sharaf was still in flight, footsteps heavy, head throbbing, like in a nightmare when you can barely move. Was this why he had felt so troubled all day? At some level had he known Laleh was planning this, but refused to acknowledge it? He could even imagine how she would have arranged it with Basma, and he was taunted by the sound of Laleh’s voice in his head.

Let me do this for you, Basma. Just make the phone calls, and I’ll do the rest .

And now the ambulance was speeding toward him, siren shrieking. All he could do was stop, staring and panting with his arms open wide, as if he might somehow enclose the whole thing with one grasping tackle and wrench his daughter free.

At the last second the ambulance swerved. The side mirror clipped his shoulder, spinning him to the ground, legs tangling as his rump struck the pavement. He let out a great sob. “Laleh!” Then the police van passed him, too.

Why were none of Mansour’s vehicles in pursuit? Sharaf looked back toward the villa and saw that Sergeant Habash was manning an impromptu roadblock with a barrier that must have been dumped out of the police van. Two of Mansour’s vehicles had emerged from their hiding places in garages farther down the street, but Habash blocked their way, gun at the ready.