Layover in Dubai (29 page)

Thinking of Ali reminded Sharaf of all the work he needed to do—phone calls, contacts, follow-ups. Adding to his anxiety was the date Charlie Hatcher had scribbled into his black book, underlined twice—“Monday, 4/14!” It had taken on the feel of a deadline, a point of no return, and now it was Saturday the 12th. Only two days left.

A rough list of tasks began taking shape in his head, and Sharaf experienced a palpable sensation of his mind snapping back into place, like a dislocated shoulder into its socket. His head seemed to be clearing by the second. Or so he thought until he tried to get out of bed. Immediately wobbly, he sat on the edge while he waited for the skewed room to go level.

“Sharaf, please!”

The Minister reached out to steady him, although his touch was tentative, uncertain. You could sense he dreaded the idea of having to pick Sharaf up off the floor. As generous as the man had been so far, he obviously drew the line at physical contact. Maybe he saw Sharaf’s ilk—a cop on a beat, when you got down to it—as beneath him. A subcaste of manual laborer, practically untouchable. Or maybe Sharaf was just dizzy.

He collected his wits as best he could and turned his attention to immediate priorities. First he would call Amina and Laleh. Then Ali, for a discreet update on Keller, provided one was available.

“I need to use your phone.”

“Your own phone is here.” He gestured toward the nightstand. “The prison gave me your belongings. The police said your car has been returned to your home.”

Sharaf’s phone was in a tidy pile along with his keys and wallet. His police uniform, which he had been wearing when he was arrested at the Seaman’s Majlis, was folded neatly on a console table at the foot of the bed. His boots were on the floor below.

He reached slowly for the phone, trying not to set off a new round of spinning. In doing so he realized that a folded sheet of paper was poking from the edge of his wallet. Someone had stuffed it in there with his cash. His curiosity got the best of him, and he took it out.

It was a handwritten note. He read it while the Minister watched with apparent interest.

“What is it, Sharaf?”

“A grocery list, from Amina. I’d forgotten it was there.”

He waved it quickly so the Minister wouldn’t see the writing, then folded it away before the lie became apparent. It was actually an address, scribbled in pencil. A location in Deira, just across the creek from where he had grown up. Below it was a message: “After we saw what happened to you, Khalifa and I decided you must be telling the truth. Good luck, inshallah. Nabil.”

“Inshallah” was underlined twice, a parting joke from Nabil, who must have bribed a guard to put the note with his belongings. Now he knew where to find the elusive Rajpal Patel, assuming Assad hadn’t beaten him to it.

“A grocery list?” the Minister said. “Are you sure that’s all it was?”

“Unless you know some other coded meaning for bananas, bread, and coffee.”

The Minister seemed on the verge of questioning him further when Sharaf’s cell phone bounded to the rescue, ringing loudly. Sharaf snatched it up so quickly that his head spun again. He paused to let things drop back into place before answering.

“Sharaf.”

“You’re up!”

It was Ali. Unfortunately the Minister didn’t seem inclined to leave the room anytime soon. Sharaf would have to guard his words, not an easy task in his current state of mind.

“Yes. I am sitting here with the Minister.”

“I see. But my news can’t wait. I’m afraid something has happened to Keller.”

“What, exactly?” Sharaf glanced at the Minister. He pointed at the phone and mouthed the name, “Ali al-Futtaim,” then smiled quickly, as if to say everything was just fine. The Minister nodded, but didn’t budge.

“Are you at liberty to talk about this now, Sharaf?”

“Maybe you’d better come and get me. I am at the Minister’s house.”

“Twenty minutes.”

“Excellent.”

He hung up, wondering what could have happened. Ali hadn’t sounded happy.

“Surely you’re not leaving?” the Minister said. “Not in your condition. It is imperative that my doctor must approve. He can be here in thirty minutes.”

“I’ll be gone in twenty.” Sharaf reached for his clothes. He wasn’t going to change back into uniform, not for the work he had in mind, but he would take it with him. “Have him phone me. You’ve got my number.”

“Look at you, you’re unsteady. It’s too soon. Lie back down.”

The Minister held out his hands, as if to insist, but he didn’t touch Sharaf.

“Really, sir. I’m fine.”

“Then in that case I suppose you’re strong enough for new marching orders.”

“New?”

“‘Amended’ is probably a better word. Things have changed.”

“Changed how? I thought you had backing from the palace?”

“I do.” The Minister seemed mildly affronted that Sharaf had even questioned his clout. “But certain, well,
pressures
are being applied. From other quarters that can’t be ignored. The American embassy, for one.”

“What sort of pressures?”

“I want you to hold off on things for a while. At least until the whereabouts of this Keller fellow are established. You look awful, you know. Let me get you a glass of water.”

The water helped. So did a wedge of bread smothered with honey. Maybe all Sharaf needed was food. Whatever the case, he was steadier by the time Ali’s black Mercedes pulled up the curving stone drive, weaving among four liveried servants who were at work on the Minister’s lawn.

“I still say you should wait here for my doctor.”

“Look at it this way, Minister. The sooner I’m back at work, the sooner we’ll find out something about the missing American, so that I can resume my investigation. And I thank you. You have been most generous and compassionate.”

“It was the least I could offer, since you are working at my behest.”

“I’m grateful you still see it that way. And as long as that’s the case, could I ask one additional small favor?”

The Minister didn’t look thrilled, but he didn’t say no.

“There was an Emirati in my cell, a fellow named Nabil. He and his cousin Khalifa were jailed unjustly. Lieutenant Assad’s doing, I suspect, so perhaps you could intervene on their behalf. Also, if you can quietly ensure that someone seizes the cellblock video surveillance recordings from last night, then I’m certain you and the rest of the royal cabinet will find the contents quite revealing. Let’s just say that the prison is not being run in a manner worthy of Sheikh Mohammed. And with a few nimble moves you, not the ministers of justice or of interior, will be able to claim the privilege of being the one who set things aright.”

This prospect seemed to brighten the Minister’s mood, enough so that Sharaf was able to depart with his reluctant blessing.

Sharaf settled with gratitude into the leather upholstery of Ali’s Mercedes. By the time they were pulling onto the street he was feeling almost normal, and for the first time in days he allowed himself a fleeting moment of optimism. Time was tight, but perhaps his enemies were growing rushed, careless. He might yet have a chance.

Then Ali told him what had happened to Keller, making Sharaf wished he had simply stayed in bed.

A few hours earlier, a Frenchman, a Belgian, and an Emirati in a white
kandoura
stood in an office frowning over the body of Sam Keller, a death watch of tame-looking strangers.

“What do you think?” the Emirati asked in English.

“I think you killed him,” the Frenchman said.

“Don’t say that! Besides, I’m not even sure it’s possible.”

“With halothane? Of course it’s possible. How much did you use?”

Laleh interrupted from across the room.

“Stop it! You’re only making it worse. Have you checked his pulse lately?”

The Emirati, apparently designated to handle the medical side of whatever it was they were up to, lifted a wrist and glanced at his watch—a huge Audemars Piguet.

“Weak, but steady. Like before.”

“How much longer, then?” the Frenchman asked.

“I told you, I’m not experienced with anesthetics. This is all guesswork.”

“You’ve established that quite clearly, but—”

“Please!” Laleh said. “He did the best he could. And my friend is safe.”

“Provided he ever wakes up. And if he does, will he walk and talk, or just lie there forever like a fallen tree?”

As if in reply, Keller’s body twitched, a spasm across the torso. Then his right hand lifted slightly. The fingers fluttered as if playing a trill on an imaginary piano.

“It’s alive!” the Belgian said, in his best Dr. Frankenstein.

The Frenchman giggled nervously. Laleh and her countryman held their tongues. All four watched intently for further signs of consciousness. Keller opened his eyes, and with a soft groan he slowly raised his head from the couch, sliding back his arms until he was propped on his elbows. He groggily scanned the room, seemingly as shocked as a newborn to suddenly find himself among the living. Time of rebirth: 4:47 a.m.

Laleh stepped nimbly between the Frenchman and the Belgian. She bent down and gently placed a hand to his cheek. Sam blinked slowly, then blinked again. Finally he spoke, his voice a croak.

“Where the hell am I?”

The others exhaled as one.

“My office,” Laleh said. “Welcome back.”

“I think now he will be okay,” the Emirati said in apparent relief.

“In your expert medical opinion?” the Frenchman asked.

“That really will be enough, Jean,” Laleh said. “And I can take over from here. Thank you. Thanks to all of you.”

The three men nodded, glancing back at Sam as they departed without a further word. With the drama apparently over, weariness was now evident in their posture. It was still dark outside the big window. The building, bustling by day, was silent.

Sam felt as if he had just climbed out of a deep hole of drugged oblivion. Considering his flash of panic during his last previous moment of consciousness, he was vaguely pleased to have awakened at all. As far as he could tell, he was still in one piece. No apparent bruises or savage wounds, except for the poultice still taped around the cut on his arm.

“That smell,” he said, remembering the hand clamping across his nose and mouth. “It was kind of sweet. What did they give me?”

“Halothane,” Laleh said. “On a handkerchief. From a brown bottle Massoud took from the hospital. He’s an orderly, not a doctor, but he thought it might come in handy. Then when he saw those men outside your room, I think he panicked. Plus the police were coming. Three cars that passed right by us on the way out of there. So I guess he decided it would be better if you came without a commotion. He probably used more than he should have.”

“Those men? Which men?”

She described them—three beefy Bengalis, two with clubs and one with a knife. They had been gathered uncertainly by the door to Sam’s room, as if awaiting a call to action. Fortunately they had been easily frightened off by the sudden appearance of Sam’s rescue party, which had strolled toward them seemingly out of nowhere just before midnight.

“Ali called me late last night to say that he had found my father. He was going to pick him up at the Central Jail. In the morning he was going to get you as well. But when I saw your e-mail it sounded too dangerous to wait any longer, so I rounded up a few friends and did what I could. Do you think the police found out you were there? Or maybe someone saw the Bengalis and phoned for them.”

“I’m not sure. With the Bengalis it was personal. Superstitions and grudges. The police? Who knows. Either way, it’s a good thing you came.”

Sam sat up straight, groggy but not in pain. He was on the couch in the foyer of Laleh’s office, out by the receptionist desk with the big window behind it. He seemed to have his wits about him, but his motor senses were enveloped in a thin fog. There was a slowness to his movements that was almost pleasant, as if some higher authority had granted him dispensation to dial things down for a while. He looked up at Laleh and smiled, aware that it was probably a goofy expression, as idiotically faithful as a dog’s. It seemed to please her, nonetheless, because she smiled back, and then sat beside him on the couch.

“Don’t you have a curfew or something?”

Laleh’s expression darkened.

“I thought my mother would strangle me on the way out of the house. She still doesn’t know where I am. I’ve never done anything like this before. When my father comes back home …” Her voice trailed off with a shudder.

“You said he was in jail?”

“They beat him up. Out cold, like you. I’ll call Ali after sunrise for an update. He said he was taking my father to the Minister’s house, for safekeeping.”

“So he’s still in hiding?”

“So are you. I don’t know where we’ll put you next.”

Laleh checked her watch and shook her head, frowning.

“What’s wrong?”

“My mother. She really will kill me. One of my brothers chased me halfway down the driveway. I was lucky to get away at all. And I forgot to bring my abaya, of course. That was probably the first thing she noticed.”

“Hey, calm down. I’ll vouch for you.”

In his relaxed state of mind he reached up and unthinkingly touched her chin to turn her face toward him. She didn’t flinch, but her eyes widened, which made him realize exactly what he was doing. He dropped his hand, embarrassed.

“Not that me vouching for you will do you any good, I guess. The crazed foreigner, with his libertine ways from abroad.”

She smiled.

“You’re still feeling the effects, aren’t you? You’ve never talked this way before. Not with me, anyway. You’re so relaxed.”

“Maybe halothane is good for me. Who were those guys?”