Layover in Dubai (11 page)

“You looked through it?”

Was it his imagination, or did she disapprove?

“Only briefly. Last night before bed. Or this morning, I guess it was. I’ve sort of lost track of time.”

“And?”

“He’d only written on one page. Three names with local numbers, and none of them were our people. Plus a bunch of numbers and letters. Maybe a code, maybe nothing.”

“Then we’ll forward the information to the authorities, of course. The same with his BlackBerry, once we’ve removed any proprietary information.”

“You found it?”

“The consular people did, in his hotel room. I’ll tell you what, Sam. How about if you retrieve that datebook while I pay the bill? Corporate account, of course, so it’s my treat. Then you can bring it downstairs to my room. I have to take care of a few arrangements for tomorrow with the concierge, then I’ll meet you there. Room 408.”

“Now?”

“Sooner is better, don’t you think? I’d have thought you’d be relieved to get rid of it.”

“You’re right.”

He headed upstairs, tipsy in the elevator, then panicking when he couldn’t find the datebook right away. But it was still in the drawer, hiding beneath the hotel directory. He flipped it open for a final glance. It was then that the meticulous side of him, the part that always demanded thoroughness, backups, and double-checking, kicked back into gear. Given what Nanette had said about the police, he decided to write down the information, in case they lost it or, worse, never followed up. The names might be Charlie’s contacts in the flesh trade, the very people who had done him in. Even if the man was crooked, his killers deserved to be punished.

So, feeling a little sneaky, Sam took a sheet of hotel stationery and logged everything verbatim, even the gibberish Charlie had written at the bottom after the “Monday, 4/14!” reference. He folded the paper twice and stuffed it in his wallet.

He arrived at the doorway of 408 before Nanette, and had to wait for a few awkward minutes in the corridor until she rounded the corner from the elevators.

“Sorry it took me so long.”

Sam reached into his pocket.

“I’ve got the—”

“Not here. Just bring it into the room. In fact, why don’t you stay for a nightcap? I’m sure there’s something suitable in the minibar.”

“I, uh, sure.”

He flushed at the possible implications of her invitation, and as he nervously followed her through the door she stopped abruptly, causing him to bump into her from behind, just across the threshold.

“Excuse me,” she said, “but I’ve dropped my key card.” She turned and gently nudged him backward, pushing her fingertips against his chest. “If you’ll just back up a step so I can pick it up.”

She stooped beneath him, her perfume reaching him on a heady updraft.

“There. Come on in. Gin and tonic, right?”

“Sure.”

She mixed it strong, and they sat side by side on a love seat by the window—or small couch, he supposed. Thinking of it as a love seat seemed reckless. He sipped carefully, aroused but wary, while she asked him where he had grown up, what places he liked to travel—small talk that seemed to be leading nowhere until she moved closer and, with a look of great intensity, placed a hand on his knee.

“So tell me something, Sam.”

“Yes?”

Her face was inches from his. Her lipstick looked very moist, like she had just applied a fresh coat. He found it a little hard to believe this was happening, but in his dreamlike state it somehow seemed perfectly plausible.

“You certainly seem like the type who doesn’t like to let go of something once you’ve sunk your teeth into it. Am I right?”

“I do tend to chew things over, I guess.”

“Which is an asset. You’re steadfast, persistent. It’s why Gary hired you.”

“But?”

She smiled. Dazzling. He sipped his gin and tonic.

“See? You even anticipated the ‘but.’ But, as I was indeed about to say, this time I want you to let go, for your own mental health and well-being. Leave the mess for others to clean up for a change. And by all means stop torturing yourself over Charlie. The man was a natural-born charmer, so at some point you were bound to let him slip his leash. If there was ever a leash to begin with. Gary and I certainly weren’t very clear in our marching orders.”

Charlie. Just hearing the name made him think of the man’s rakish grin, his sense of fun. Then he thought of how Charlie had looked at the end—the ragged hole in his chest, the blood-soaked suit.

“Sam?”

He looked up, startled to find Nanette still there, ever so close.

“See?” she said. “You’re doing it now, aren’t you? Going over everything again in your mind. It’s a form of torture, really, for people like you.”

He supposed it was true. Why else would he have taken down the names from the datebook unless, at some level, he was still replaying everything in his head. And he
did
want to find out what had really happened, and why.

“You’re right,” he said. “It’s just how I’m wired, I guess.”

“That’s why you needed this drink, this moment of calm. And it’s why I rather enjoy helping to, well, distract you for a while. You might even say it’s my corporate duty.”

She moved marginally closer and slid her hand a bit higher from his knee. Now he could
smell
her lipstick. He wondered how it would taste when mixed with the juniper sharpness of the gin.

“You’re a very nice distraction,” he said.

“Thank you. But we have to be careful, you know.”

She retreated slightly, no more than an inch or two, just enough to make him wonder if he had said the wrong thing.

“Careful?”

“With appearances. In Dubai, I mean. They’re very sensitive about these male-female arrangements. Unless you’re married, it’s practically a crime to even touch in public. And being in the same hotel room together like this, well …”

“Really?”

“Oh, yes. It’s why I always advise male and female associates traveling together in this part of the world to stay on different floors, sometimes even in different hotels. And by all means never, ever look too cozy at the breakfast table. Or don’t you ever read those little memos I send out?”

“Sure. Sometimes.”

She smiled at his obvious discomfort. Then she removed her hand from his knee.

“It’s all right. I know you’re probably too busy. But the police do make a fuss about it here. That and drugs. One poor fellow was locked up for months when they found a poppy seed in the sole of his shoe.”

“Wow.”

“You’ve seen them in action. Do you trust them?”

He thought of Assad’s threats, and the rudeness of the other one, Sharaf, plus the vibe that something hadn’t been quite right between them.

“No. I don’t.”

“Nor do I. So we’ll try to keep you insulated.”

“But I want to help.”

“Do that through me, then. It’s my job. Not always the easiest job, I’ll confess. Nor do I always get the support I need from our boardroom. Another issue entirely, but it’s why I can sympathize so easily with your feeling of helplessness. And this time you really do need to just let go. I don’t want you to be too easily available for any mischief the police might try. Sometimes they’ll file charges just to extort a bribe, knowing we’ll pay. And the possibility that Charlie was up to his eyeballs in this mess certainly wouldn’t strengthen our hand if something like that happened. So until you’re safely aboard a flight home, lay low. And if all else fails there’s always Hal Liffey at the consulate. They’d offer sanctuary, I’m sure, as long as I vouched for you.”

“Thanks.”

Her words, although intended to reassure, were a little unsettling. He also wondered vaguely what had become of the intimacy of a few moments ago. She seemed to have edged even farther away.

“Sam?”

“Yes?”

“You look exhausted. I should let you go.”

It was an exit line, and fortunately he wasn’t too addled to take the hint. How had he ever let himself believe that she was making a move on him? He supposed he had misread her completely, although as he rode the elevator back to his floor her signals still puzzled him. If he hadn’t been so wiped out they might have kept him awake for quite a while. As it was, he slipped almost immediately into a deep and healing sleep, not stirring until well after sunrise, when he was awakened by an insistent knocking.

He threw on a hotel robe and opened the door.

Two policemen in khaki stood in the hallway. Neither was Lieutenant Assad. Perhaps there was news of an arrest.

“Are you Mr. Sam Keller?”

“Yes.”

“You are pleased to get dressed and accompany to us.”

“I’m what?”

“You are being in our custody with us, Mr. Keller. You are under our arrest.”

“Arrest?
On what charge?”

“You are pleased to get dressed, sir, and accompany to us. Now, sir, let us go. Unless we are forced to take evasive action.”

The second cop, smaller and wirier, had apparently had enough of this ridiculous exchange. He gripped Sam’s forearm with surprising strength and pulled him out the door.

“Arrest!” he shouted, thrusting his face within inches of Sam’s. “You come! Arrest!”

“But I haven’t done anything!” he said, pulling for all he was worth. Everything Nanette had said about the police came charging back, dark and frightening. It was a frame-up, and he was the victim.

“Let go!” he shouted.

The shorter cop struck him sharply across the jaw, a blow that tumbled him to the floor. Then the first cop handcuffed him and hauled him to his feet.

“You are pleased, sir, to get dressed and accompany to us!” he said again. “You are under our arrest.”

Sharaf was just settling into the comfortable squalor of his desk after a late lunch when he heard the voice of the American, shouting in the next room. He was certain it was Keller, the fellow from the York. But why would a foreign businessman be out with the rabble in the main booking area?

Curious, Sharaf got up to look through the open doorway of his office. Sure enough, Keller was seated opposite Sergeant Habash, who was typing out a charging document.

As usual, the room was in chaos, the atmosphere of a bus station at rush hour. Its floor space, roughly that of a trailer home, was bisected lengthwise by a cordon of six desks, with the public on one side and the police on the other. Most of the public was confined to a few rows of chairs in a small waiting area, where everyone looked bored or impatient. Hanging from the ceiling above each desk was a numbered sign, but the numbers were out of sequence, proceeding 1-2-3-4-6-5. No one had ever explained why.

This was where you came to be charged, or fingerprinted, or to swear out a warrant, claim an impounded vehicle, ask for a file, or even request a good-conduct certificate, an indispensable document for any domestic employee seeking to return to his home country. And that was just for the men. Behind a privacy curtain down at the far end was an area where the needs of women were handled by officials of their own gender.

The low-slung building had once been the headquarters for the Criminal Investigations Division, but a few years ago most of the detectives had moved upward and onward to a new two-story building, where bigger and quieter offices were well removed from the prying eyes of the public.

Sharaf had chosen to stay behind, a move his colleagues viewed as akin to a soldier turning down a home leave in favor of more shelling at the front. To more ambitious types, such as Lieutenant Assad, it was yet another sign of Sharaf’s lack of initiative.

But he had his reasons. For one thing, it was part of his disguise as someone of little consequence. It also kept him attuned to the rough-and-tumble of the criminal marketplace. The bookings, the complaints, even the stupid arguments over who was next in line—all of it gave him a better feel for the mood of the street in this fast-changing city. His colleagues were welcome to their peace and quiet. Bedlam was its own reward.

And here was a fresh case in point. Up in CID headquarters he never would have overheard the American, Keller, loudly protesting his arrest. Curious, indeed, to find him here. Fortunate, too, since Sharaf had just been trying to come up with an excuse for getting in touch, in spite of the Minister’s orders to lay off.

Keller appeared to be in a bad way. He was unshaven, hair uncombed, and there was a bruise on his lower jaw. No tie, just a wrinkled suit jacket slung over his shoulder, belted khaki slacks with no crease, and a powder blue oxford-cloth shirt, sleeves rolled. His face had the frantic look of someone who had just fallen into a deep hole in unfamiliar surroundings, far from home and bereft of allies—a blend of panic, incredulity, and impotent rage. The perfect setup, in other words, for the move Sharaf was about to make, provided Keller hadn’t gone and done something unforgivable.

Fortunately, the only impediment for the moment was Sergeant Habash, a classic Palestinian striver who was always looking for any way possible to get himself promoted out of this noisy little chamber where his bosses could literally peek over his shoulder.

“Habash!”

The sergeant stopped typing with a flinch, as if expecting a rebuke. He looked back at Sharaf with the wary eyes of a puppy that has been swatted once too often.

Habash was always volunteering for any chore that might win him extra credit, even when he was woefully unqualified. Recently he had begun writing the English versions of the “Case of the Week” summaries for the department’s Web site. Habash’s English was practically nonexistent, and Sharaf suspected the fellow was relying on some sort of clunky translation software, a suspicion that seemed confirmed when he came across a recent posting touting the department’s arrest of a Bangladeshi burglar: