Layover in Dubai (15 page)

He went back to the couch, where he sat listening to Laleh’s music from down the hall over the muffled sounds of shouting from next door. He half expected her to come creeping back now that her father had gone, but he supposed that for the moment she had expended her supply of boldness. He was sorry for that. With only himself for company he felt his worries return. He was even kind of homesick.

On the other hand, he definitely wasn’t bored. Given what he had already seen of the household dynamics, the evening ahead promised to be interesting. After all those times he’d yearned for adventure, or an insider’s view, he was finally getting his wish—stretching himself, as Charlie might have said.

Of course, that was before armed Russians and vengeful policemen had entered the mix. Simply staying alive sounded like a pretty good option, too.

Sharaf slunk down the hallway before dawn, a prowler in his own home. He paused by Laleh’s door to listen for suspicious activity before proceeding to the guest room. Keller was still asleep, thank goodness. So was everyone else.

It had been a restless night. Amina had returned home from grocery shopping to be scandalized by the unannounced presence of an unfamiliar male. She viewed Keller’s installation as a workplace incursion into her domestic fiefdom. She nonetheless rose to the demands of hospitality by preparing a huge dinner and making strained conversation for a few hours. But just when the mood had started to loosen, Keller had put things back on edge by asking, “So tell me about the living arrangements in your compound. Who lives in the other three houses?”

That was sometimes the problem with Western guests, particularly Americans. Show them a little warmth and they assumed an awkward familiarity. They were always wanting you to “open up,” as if candor equaled friendship.

To make matters worse, Laleh proceeded to answer with unnecessary frankness.

“Well, Salim lives in one. He’s the one you saw arguing with Father. He’s the eldest, with two wives and four children. My brother Rahim has the smallest house, which is just as well, since he is twenty-nine and lives by himself. My two other brothers are both still students, living abroad.”

Not noticing her mother’s chilly glare or her father’s doomed look of woe, Laleh rattled on like a runaway train. Perhaps the American’s appreciative smile was leading her into peril. Amina undoubtedly noticed that as well.

“The third house is the most interesting. It belongs to my aunt and my cousins. My father invited them to build there because he felt sorry for them. His brother shocked everyone by dying without a penny to his name.”

The airing of the last point was especially awkward. Sharaf’s decision had always been a sore point with Amina. Accommodating a fourth house meant the other three had to be smaller, and Amina had never liked Sharaf’s elderly aunt. He understood his wife’s resentment, but there were deeper and more secretive reasons for his generosity, ones that he never intended to share with anyone.

Shortly after Laleh’s soliloquy, Amina stiffly offered her regrets and marched off to bed, leaving the cleanup to her loose-lipped daughter.

Sharaf had braced for the worst when he finally headed for the bedroom.

“I know, I know, I know,” he said preemptively as he joined his wife. He hadn’t even bothered to pour a glass of camel’s milk, knowing it would settle poorly after the beating he was about to take. “Having the American here is an imposition, and I apologize. I’ll have him out of here as soon as possible. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure that Laleh doesn’t say another word to him.”

Amina said nothing in reply. She offered only a glare over her shoulder as she dressed for sleep. When she settled into the mattress she rolled onto her side, turning her back to him. Her matronly hips curved beneath the sheets like a distant, imposing bluff, snowy and insurmountable. Her continuing silence was unnerving. It was like bedding down next to a volcano. Eventually there would be an eruption, and the longer she remained inactive, the more violent the eventual explosion would be. Sharaf decided to vent some steam.

“If it’s any comfort, no one outside our family knows about this. There will be no hint of scandal with regard to Laleh. So if anyone from my office calls, for whatever reason, don’t mention a word.”

“So what you’re doing is also illegal? Is that what you’re telling me?”

“Of course not.”

“Wonderful. What crime has this man committed? Fornication? Rape, even?”

“Please, Amina. I can assure you he has committed no crime at all.”

“Which is why no one can know he is here, because he is so pure and innocent. Yes, you’re making perfect sense. Good night, Anwar. Trouble me no more, please.”

Great. He had made her even angrier. Meaning he didn’t dare reveal his own worries, which would have upset her more. Because to Sharaf’s mind, Keller’s presence imperiled far more than social propriety. If word leaked out, he could imagine armed intruders scaling the wall of the family compound to pry open doors and windows in the dead of night. Rogue policemen, or worse, would be at their doorstep.

He tried to relax by reading Dostoevsky, but every line about guilt and torment only reminded him of his predicament, so he soon turned out the light. When he awoke shortly before five he knew it was useless to try to get back to sleep before prayers. So he rose, washed his hands and face, and then retreated to the parlor, where he knelt to pray. First he completed the late prayer from the night before, having forgotten it amid the turmoil of the evening. Then, a few minutes ahead of schedule, he offered the morning prayer, followed by a hasty version of the midday prayer. These three-for-one sessions weren’t exactly by the book, but he had learned to appreciate their economy on the pearling boat. Sharaf doubted God minded a few shortcuts. It was like dealing with any authority figure, he supposed. Show some respect and you’d generally be left to your own devices.

He brewed a pot of coffee and took a steaming cup to his office at the center of the house, where he shut the door, opened his cell phone, and punched in the number for the Minister, another early riser.

“Sharaf?”

“Just checking in.”

“Early, but I’m glad you called. I have something for you. Straight from the heart of the matter.”

“Our Slavic friends?”

“Word from the Tsar himself. Via my contacts, of course.” The Minister claimed to have sources in all sorts of unlikely places. Sharaf didn’t know whether to be impressed or alarmed.

“Big doings tonight. A rare summit conference with the Persians. Eight o’clock.”

“I thought we called them Iranians now. What’s the location?”

“Neutral territory, out in the open. The mall at the Burjuman. Beyond that, my source couldn’t be more specific, but I’m sure you’ll manage to find them.”

“Probably one of the restaurants in the upper courtyard. What’s the agenda?”

“That’s what I want you to find out.”

“Hard to see how, unless they invite me to join them.”

“Oh, come on. You’re a resourceful man.”

“Who tells you these things?”

“About you or the Russians? And what does it matter, as long as it’s correct? By the way, about that American.”

Sharaf tensed. He wondered what the Minister had heard.

“The dead one?”

“The live one. The witness. I’m told he has disappeared.”

“I heard the same thing.”

“You know nothing more?”

“Why should I?”

“Because you were interested in him. You told me so yourself.”

“And you said to steer clear.”

“Come on, Sharaf. I know how you operate. Where do you think he’s gone?”

“To the embassy in Abu Dhabi, if he has any brains.”

“Seeking asylum? Do you really think they would smuggle him out?”

“His employer certainly has the clout. You’re the one with the connections. You tell me.”

Silence. Sharaf suspected the Minister was smiling knowingly, having guessed the truth but trusting Sharaf not to screw things up. Or maybe that was wishful thinking.

“Don’t make trouble for us, Sharaf. Don’t get reckless on me.”

“Of course not.”

“And keep me posted on tonight’s events.”

That went without saying.

A few moments later, the dawn call to prayer sounded from the neighborhood mosque, with its signature line, “Prayer is better than sleep.” He heard Laleh groan in disagreement from her bed as he trooped to the kitchen for more coffee. Still not a peep out of Keller. He expected Amina to appear in her robe to make breakfast, as was her custom. When she didn’t he sighed and made it himself, setting out fruit, bread, and yogurt on the table. Then he unfolded the morning’s fresh copy of
Gulf News
, his daily means of keeping up with the English-speaking world.

The front page was the usual silliness, bright colors and bold headlines splashed on extravagantly glossy paper: An Israeli war game was in progress, drawing the typically hysterical reaction. Six new lanes had opened on Emirates Road, bringing it to twelve in all. Atop the page was a headline announcing that Sheikh Mohammed had been named the UAE’s “Distinguished Personality of the Year.” Now there was a surprise. He was indeed a great man, but this daily pandering was annoying.

Sharaf flipped the page. The agency handling car registrations was planning to auction the rights to more license tags with single-digit numbers. It seemed like a pretty good idea, seeing as how someone had paid $15 million for a tag with the number 1. He turned another page. Three killed in horrendous crash. Local college girl arrested for smoking hashish. Did Laleh know her?

There was nothing about a woman’s body being found in the desert, not that he had expected any coverage. Nothing yet about Charlie Hatcher, either. He had heard that the news would be released this afternoon, which would produce a brief onslaught of foreign press inquiries. He was happy to let Lieutenant Assad handle them.

Down at the bottom of page five was a brief about a missing tourist. Sharaf scanned it and moved on to sports, but something about the story set a hook deep in his mind. Flipping back a page, he reread the item carefully. A few moments later he rose from the table, walked quietly down the hall, and slipped into the guest bedroom. Taking care to make as little noise as possible, he lifted Keller’s trousers from the back of a chair, checked the back pockets, found the man’s wallet and passport, left them both in place, and then folded the trousers over his arm. He picked up Keller’s belt, shirt, undershorts, socks, and shoes from a small, neat pile at the foot of the bed. Clutching the bundle tightly to his chest, he tiptoed back into the hallway and gently nudged the door shut behind him. Fortunately, Laleh and Amina were still in their rooms. He exited the rear of the house and walked to the carport, where the Camry was parked next to Amina’s and Laleh’s BMWs.

The birds were in full morning song, and the first rays of sunlight were golden in the pale leaves of an olive tree. He opened the door of a small shed at the rear of the carport and stepped inside, where it smelled like potting soil and motor oil. Sharaf dropped Keller’s belongings onto the concrete floor. Then he leaned beneath a workbench and, grunting with effort, tugged out an old washtub of corrugated steel, and put Keller’s belongings inside. Turning to go, he decided to first check Keller’s wallet.

The contents were about what he expected: cash in two currencies, American driver’s license, credit cards, and a sheaf of dated receipts, including one from the York Club from the night of Charlie Hatcher’s murder. The only surprise was a folded sheet of hotel stationery from the Shangri-La. Someone had written down three names and phone numbers. The numbers were local, and two were vaguely familiar, although he couldn’t place them. Below was “Monday, 4/14!” underlined twice, followed by a scribbled sequence of letters and numbers that made no sense at all.

Was it connected to the case? Possibly. What could be so important about April 14, which was only six days away? It made him wonder what else Keller was holding back. He would delve into it later.

He held on to the paper but put the wallet back into the pocket and returned the trousers to the tub, while making a mental note to round up the rest of the necessary supplies later in the day. But to really make this plan work he would first have to phone his old friend Mansour, who, like Ali, had been a fellow diver on his pearl boat during that long ago summer.

Sharaf congratulated himself on his idea as he relocked the shed. A little unorthodox, perhaps, but it just might succeed. It would also serve the dual purpose of keeping the American from running away. You couldn’t very well leave the country without a passport.

He reentered the house to find that Keller was up and about, having dressed in some baggy clothes of Rahim’s. He did still have his suit coat, which seemed to be the only item that fit properly, but he wasn’t taking matters well at all.

“What the hell did you do with my wallet and passport? Not to mention my clothes?”

“No profanities in my household, if you please. I’ve taken those items into custody for evidentiary purposes. I assure you they’re quite safe.”

“Evidence of what?”

“Please. We will discuss these matters later. For now, it is time for breakfast.”

“At least the damn shoes fit,” he muttered. “Pardon my French.”

He seemed on the verge of protesting more, but held his tongue. Sharaf was guessing the young man didn’t want to make a fuss in front of Laleh, who had just appeared. She wore an abaya, praise God, although she had showered and dressed in record time.

Amina joined them seconds later, lips drawn. Her demeanor cast a pall on the table, and for a while the only sounds were of chewing and sipping. Sharaf broke the silence just before his last swallow of coffee.

“There are some serious matters we need to deal with,” he said to Keller.