Layover in Dubai (2 page)

Gary was the type of boss who lived for meetings, even if they were one-on-one. Sam stepped into his office to find Gary poring over a proposed itinerary, which must have just arrived from the corporate travel office. Gary motioned for him to take a seat.

“This trip of yours to Hong Kong. I see you’ve got a short layover in Dubai.”

“I wouldn’t call six hours short.”

“Then stay overnight. Some of our eastbound guys do that, you know. Fun place.”

“If you like duty-free shopping.”

“Or beaches and good restaurants. Not to mention a little sunshine after this sack-of-shit weather we’re having.” It was snowing out Gary’s window—big, grim flakes on the fifth day of spring, looking gray even before they reached the street, forty-seven stories below. “Nice club scene, too.”

“What are you getting at, Gary?”

“Arnie Bettman’s in Dubai, setting up our new regional office for Africa and the Middle East. He won’t have it up and running until May, but in the meantime you could pay him a courtesy call for the department.”

“I can handle that. I’ll just leave a day earlier.”

“Make it two. That way you can rest up and hit the ground running in Hong Kong. And stay somewhere nice. You’ve earned it. You’re our top man in redlining stuff that saves bucks. And, frankly …” Gary cleared his throat and looked down at his papers. “It’s not exactly news that you’re always low man for travel per diem. By a lot.”

“You’re saying I’m making the rest of the department look bad?”

“Not intentionally. It’s just that—”

“You think I’m a grind. It’s okay, Gary. You’re not the only one.”

The timing for this brand of criticism was unfortunate. Deborah Kearns, Sam’s girlfriend of the past two months, had dumped him the previous week for much the same reason, saying he was too careful, too cautious, a predictable drone on whom the opportunities of an international lifestyle were sadly wasted.

Nor was it the first time he had heard this sort of grumbling at Pfluger Klaxon. The longer Sam walked the straight and narrow, the more some of the older hands resented his brand of diligence. Although he easily made amends once they discovered his knack for picking apart the company’s rosy quarterly reports and damage-control press releases. Still closer to their hearts, he was an expert at spotting holes in compensation packages.

That was the corporate risk of hiring a good auditor with a healthy curiosity—an honest one, anyway. Yes, he can save you millions. But let him wander off into the margins, and the slightest whiff of funny business will reek to him like a rotting corpse. All the more reason to keep shuttling him from one country to the next, with the strictest of marching orders.

Yet, here was Gary Grimshaw telling Sam to loosen up for a change. To slow down and enjoy the scenery. So why not give it a try?

“It’s all set, then,” Gary said. “A two-night layover in Dubai.”

That was the moment when Nanette Weaver arrived.

“Got a minute, Gary?”

“Soon as I finish with Sam.”

“No rush. It’s just that I heard from the travel office that one of your people might be passing through Dubai, and I wanted to ask a favor.”

“Sam’s your man. Perfect timing!”

Too perfect, Sam thought—although Gary did seem genuinely ecstatic at the prospect of expanding his meeting into a threesome, especially with a figure as lofty as Nanette Weaver. As Pfluger Klaxon’s executive vice president for corporate security and investigations, she was known throughout the building as a rising star. Sharp and canny, she was even more of a stickler for rules than Sam. She was a relentless enforcer, not only in combating international drug counterfeiters, but also in her more personal campaign to maintain decorum among company employees, both at home and abroad.

The previous year she had famously reeled in a vice president for finance after discovering that he had received Nubian antiquities in exchange for helping a West African foreign minister cook the books. Just last month her quick footwork had freed a Pfluger Klaxon executive who had been jailed in Singapore merely for whistling at a woman on the sidewalk.

Not that she always got her way. Rumor had it that on a few occasions she’d been forced to back down, supposedly when her targets had more clout in the boardroom than she did. But for frequent international travelers at Sam’s level, rarely a week passed when she didn’t stuff their in-boxes with some reminder about ethical dealings abroad, or the importance of cultural sensitivity (including a pointed warning against the perils of using red ink in a certain Asian country). And when she was consulted for opinions on whether one might properly do this or that, she so frequently ruled in the negative that one of the older hands dredged up an old Broadway title to dub her “No No Nanette.” One didn’t dare utter the name to her face, and only the foolhardy used it in e-mail, since, technically, she had access to every message that came and went from Pfluger Klaxon.

Sam learned all this only after he had developed a bit of a—well, not really a crush, more of a detached lusting, even though she was at least eight years his senior. Because for all her preaching on modest behavior abroad, while in Manhattan she notably favored clingy blouses in bold colors, skirts above the knee, and form-fitting suits. Her eyes were striking—a blue-green shimmer from the deep end of a swimming pool—set off nicely by auburn hair. Her figure was admirable, and she could be seen working on it several times a week during her lunch hour at the health club around the corner. As a representative of a pharmaceutical firm, she told colleagues, she felt obligated to project a healthy image. Sam certainly approved, and he doubted it cost her any points in the boardroom, where the predominant image was that of flabby white males.

So, by the time Sam had heard enough about No No Nanette to realize that he ought to keep his distance, he had developed a habit of watching keenly from the lunch table as she arrived in the office cafeteria, fresh from her shower at the gym. He could never quite take his eyes off her as she briskly negotiated the salad bar, still flushed from her exertions. Her title, and even her age, only seemed to heighten her appeal, lending a stern air of risky authority.

For all those reasons, Sam was a little disconcerted as she stepped into Gary’s office wearing a tapered black skirt and a green silk blouse, which stood out against the white walls like jade on bare skin. She took a seat directly across from him and crossed her legs with a swish of black nylons.

“So tell me about this trip of yours.”

Gary began laying out the proposed itinerary. Nanette produced a small tape recorder, seemingly from nowhere. She stood it on Gary’s desk and pressed RECORD.

“You’re taping this?” Sam asked.

“Tapes all her meetings,” Gary said briskly, as if he regularly attended.

Nanette frowned apologetically.

“A necessary evil for the head of corporate security, I’m afraid.”

Sam had never heard of such a policy. Gary soon wrapped things up.

“Sounds like an excellent plan,” Nanette said. “And as long as you’re headed that way, Sam, I have a small assignment. Provided you’re interested.”

She recrossed her legs. The chair creaked like a mattress. She looked quite good, though he wasn’t usually attracted to older women, especially ones in a position to ruin him.

“Sure,” he said, his mouth dry.

“How well do you know Charlie Hatcher?”

Her tone was casual, but neither she nor Gary moved a muscle.

“Charlie in quality control? The older guy?”

“He’s forty-four. But, yes, that Charlie.”

“Can’t say I know him well, but we worked together on the Brussels job last fall.”

The job had been conventional, even routine, a three-day fixer-upper carried out in New York for one of their operations in Europe. Charlie and he had meshed easily enough, relating to each other in the usual way of older and younger colleagues. Sam deferred to Charlie’s experience, while Charlie patiently humored Sam’s hunger for fresh approaches. Things went so smoothly that Sam mildly regretted having to decline Charlie’s offer of a drink after they wrapped things up on Friday. He had other plans, but might have squeezed in at least one round, and since then there had been no occasion to renew the acquaintance.

“He seemed like a good guy. Easy to work with.”

“Any other impressions?” Nanette asked.

There were, in fact, but Sam wasn’t inclined to offer them, not with his questioners looking so eager—particularly Gary. And it wasn’t as if he had anything profound to say. It was just that Charlie had struck him as a man who, even within the rigid hierarchies of Pfluger Klaxon, had grown comfortable with the idea of going his own way. The solutions they worked out that week had fallen well within company practice, but in implementing them Charlie had bypassed the chain of command and contacted the European office directly.

“It’s okay,” Charlie had reassured him. “When you’re out there in the provinces, old son, the leash grows very long and very slack. By the time our folks here think to give it a tug, those guys will have everything tidied up.”

Charlie was a man who had come to terms with the arc of his career, and that was especially refreshing when compared to the burnouts and buttoned-up types Sam usually encountered in the older ranks. Still, he could see how such habits might eventually catch the attention of a corporate security officer, especially one as exactingly proper as Nanette Weaver.

“Well?” Gary prompted.

“He was a straight shooter. With me, at least. And a nice guy.”

“Oh, he’s plenty friendly,” Gary said. “That’s the least of our worries.”

“You’re worried about him?” Sam directed the question at Nanette. “He’s very competent.”

“I agree,” Nanette said. “He’s a valuable associate. Especially when he’s home and behaving himself. It’s when he gets out in the world that he becomes a concern. An embarrassment, even.”

“Doing what?”

“The usual male transgressions. Women, booze. Not that all you fellows don’t indulge in some of that. But Charlie crosses the line. That’s why I’d like you to travel with him, be his friend for the weekend. At least until he’s well beyond the temptations of Dubai.”

“Spy on him, you mean.”

“Not at all. You’ll simply be along for the ride, keeping his nose clean. I’m not asking for a single report on his behavior, or his movements, and I won’t be badgering you for updates along the way. That would be unseemly, even improper. It’s not like we expect saintly behavior. I just want you to, well, keep him from going off the deep end.”

“Like a chaperone.”

“If you prefer.”

“For a man sixteen years older than me. Will you be telling Charlie about this?”

“In a manner of speaking. He’ll be told it’s you who needs a chaperone—because you’re a little shy, unseasoned, especially in the Arab world. So he’s supposed to take good care of you. Even show you a good time, within reason. To sweeten the pot, you’ll be staying at Charlie’s usual hotel, the Shangri-La, which is a regular, well, Shangri-La.”

“What if he ditches me?”

“Then you’re to let me know. Only as a precaution. By using this.”

She slid a black cell phone across Gary’s white desktop. The mere idea of it seemed to raise the stakes, and Sam’s first inclination was to avoid it.

“I have my own.”

“This one’s better. It’s already got a SIM card for Dubai’s server, and the battery’s good for a full week. You’re to keep it switched on 24/7, in case I need you.”

Sam still didn’t pick it up.

“I’m not sure I’m comfortable with this. Maybe I’m not the right guy for the job.”

Gary frowned.

“Do me a favor, Sam. Do the
department
a favor. Just play along.”

“No, no. It’s all right.” Nanette smiled benevolently. “I don’t want him doing something he’s not comfortable with. But, Sam, I would like you to consider that Charlie has a family. A wife and three children, two in college. And if he runs off the rails again I’m not sure we can hush it up a second time. Much less keep him on the payroll.”

“You’d fire him? What has he done?”

Gary spoke again.

“‘Whoremonger’ would be the indelicate term.”

Nanette frowned.

“Ever heard of the Cyclone?” she asked.

“Vaguely. Some nightclub in Dubai?”

“A brothel bar, in the local parlance. Or used to be. There was a big write-up about it in
Vanity Fair
. The government was so embarrassed they raided the place. Loads of cops. And, as luck would have it, our Charlie was there. That wouldn’t have been so bad if he hadn’t started railing drunkenly at the police. He told so many of them to fuck off that they dragged him to the station, where he said some even more unpardonable things.”

“Like what?”

“Do you really need to ask that, Sam?” Gary said.

“It’s all right. He’s an auditor. It’s his nature to ask. It’s a
good
thing, Gary. One of the reasons you keep promoting him. What Charlie said was words to the effect of how Dubai was led by, and I’m quoting from the police report, ‘a bunch of towel-headed hypocrites, stupid killjoys who need to get their own house in order before they start policing everybody else’s.’”

“Oh.”

“Yes, ‘Oh.’ It all got back to the royal family, of course. To the supreme ruler for the emirate, Sheikh Mohammed. His dad, Sheikh Rashid, was the one who built the place up from nothing. Not exactly good for business to offend them, especially when we’re opening a new regional office there. If Charlie’s experience and contacts weren’t indispensable to our plans in that part of the world, we would just make Dubai off-limits. As it is, we have fences to mend, and with your help we can mend them. As you may know, Dubai is our most important transportation hub. The port at Jebel Ali handles everything we ship to points east, not to mention all the raw materials we receive in return. It’s also the biggest transshipment point for pharmaceutical counterfeits, and the government has finally agreed to let us start training their customs inspectors on how to crack down. So these are people we can’t afford to alienate, much less infuriate. As for Charlie, well, look at it this way. Your work just might save his career.”