Layover in Dubai (3 page)

Which is why, after a little more nudging from Nanette, Sam ultimately agreed to play along. Although he wished he hadn’t almost the moment Charlie and he landed, when Nanette, breaking a promise, phoned him for an update as he stood in the passport line. It was the first of three such calls she had made so far.

Charlie, at least, had softened the blow by dropping several hints that he knew the real reason they’d been paired. And up until an hour ago the man had been virtually trouble free, not to mention so companionable that Sam had finally turned off his phone while they were riding across town to the York, a small act of rebellion that he was already regretting now that Charlie had disappeared.

Sam checked his watch. Thirty-four minutes and counting. A few people were heading toward the exits. He decided he had better turn his special phone back on, just in case. He watched the screen come to life. Two messages from Nanette were waiting, but before he could check them the phone rang.

“You turned off your phone. Why?”

Nanette sounded furious. Sam calculated that it was nearly 7 p.m. in Manhattan. He imagined her seated by the window in her office on the fiftieth floor, bathed in the dusky light of early evening, her legs crossing with a dangerous hiss.

“I, uh, needed a recharge.”

“Bullshit. But we’ll deal with that later. Where’s Charlie?”

“The two of us are at the York Club. It’s—”

“A notorious fleshpot.” Same words Charlie had used. “How long have you been there?”

“Maybe an hour?”

“Damn it, Sam. And where, exactly, is Charlie?”

“He seems to have disappeared. Maybe fifteen minutes ago. Or closer to thirty-five, I guess.”

“With a whore?”

“Apparently.”

“Russian?”

“Maybe. I’m not sure.” Did she really know Charlie’s tastes that well? “If it’s any comfort, there aren’t any police.”

“You’ve dropped the ball, Sam. Dropped it and kicked it clear down the block into the gutter, along with your career and Charlie’s, too. I’ll take over.”

“But I could—”

She hung up.

He sighed, shut the phone, and swallowed hard. Then he glanced nervously down the darkened hallway. Still no Charlie. Someone announced from the bandstand that it was closing time. A collective groan went up from the women. One brushed past on his left, practically in tears. Sam could sympathize. He, too, would soon be answering to an angry pimp. He was in a hell of a mess, and he feared Charlie was in a bigger one.

Ten minutes passed as he nervously cooled his heels, glancing every few seconds toward the empty corridor. By then the York was half empty, with a knot of departing men and women clogging the exit. A sudden commotion drew his attention toward two beefy fellows in black T-shirts and tight sport coats who were bulldozing in against the flow. They burst into the clear, headed for the corridor, and disappeared into the gloom where Sam had last seen Charlie.

Sam decided to find out what was up, but he had taken only a few steps when a woman emerged from the shadows at top speed. It was Charlie’s whore, the one in blue sequins. She was wild-eyed and barefoot, and her dress was torn at the shoulder and wet across the front. Had gentle old Charlie done that? She recognized Sam and rushed toward him, tumbling into his arms—all musk and perfume. She blurted something unintelligible, then switched to English.

“Your friend! You must come now! Hurry!”

She tugged his hand. The sound of slamming doors echoed from the corridor, except the noise was louder, sharper. The two big guys stepped out into the light and headed for the exit. They weren’t running, but they weren’t strolling, either. It was a businesslike pace, assuming your business was trouble. One had a hand in his jacket. The other scanned the floor and locked eyes with Sam, a glance that dropped the temperature to Siberian levels. Gray eyes, buzz cut, Slavic cheekbones. Features sharp enough to break ice all the way to the Arctic Circle. Russian, Sam guessed, like the woman. Her angry pimp, or maybe the pimp’s enforcer. What on earth had Charlie done, and what had become of him?

He followed the frantic woman down the hallway to an open door at the far end. Charlie lay a few feet inside, faceup in a spreading pool of blood. His midsection was a meaty red blotch torn at the edges like the tip of an exploded cigar. Viscera and pulp, blood and intestines. Sam had failed him, had failed everyone, and Charlie was dead, practically blown in half. Switch off your phone in a single moment of independence, and this was what happened.

Sam bent forward. Then he retched and heaved. Five drinks and an overpriced dinner streamed hotly up his throat and onto the bloody floor.

Poor dead Charlie. He deserved better.

Sam heard the first wave of cops approaching down the hallway—the clank of gun belts and nightsticks, excited shouting in Arabic, the heavy tread of boots. He sat exhausted and distraught in a swivel chair. Charlie’s body lay at his feet, fully clothed but crudely disemboweled, as if clumsy surgeons had hacked the man open and then abandoned the operation. The room smelled like gunfire, blood, vomit, and new carpeting.

Charlie’s face was a pale grimace, a trace of righteous anger seeming to linger even as his corneas filmed over like the eyes of a beached fish. His arms were spread wide, as if his last words had been a question: “Why here, and why now?”

At least the pool of blood was no longer spreading. Sam had already vomited a second time, into a trash can. A few minutes ago he had phoned Nanette to break the news. Her anger turned instantly to shock.

“Oh, my God!” she said. “How?”

“Someone shot him. Two men, I think, but I didn’t see it happen, and they ran off. I’m with him now. It’s horrible. They blew him apart.”

“Have you alerted the police?”

“They’re on the way.”

“Stay with the body, if you can bear it. And Sam?”

“Yes?”

“I know this is awkward, but can you check for his BlackBerry? It’s a terrible thing to ask of you, but we can’t risk having it fall into the wrong hands, not in Charlie’s line of work.”

“Quality control?”

“You’d be surprised.”

Sam squeezed his eyes shut, already bracing for the grisly task. Good God, but she was coldly efficient. Or maybe it was simply the difference between sitting in a spotless office in Manhattan and being in a bloody room with a dead body. And it was her job. She’d probably handled this sort of thing before.

“I—I’ll try. It’s a pretty big mess.”

“I understand. Just do what you can. I’ll phone the embassy, they’ll want to know. At some point there will be forms to fill out, procedures to follow, but leave all that to me. I’m coming on the next flight. Leaving tonight, probably.”

“You’re coming here?”

“We’ve lost one of our own, Sam. In the line of duty. Of course I’m coming. Just stay there until help arrives. And whatever else you do, cooperate fully with the authorities. We have lawyers there on retainer if you need one. In fact, I’ll round one up now.”

“Why would I—?”

“You probably won’t. It’s only a precaution. Police aren’t always the best in places like Dubai. Another reason to get his BlackBerry before they arrive. Otherwise, do what they ask and get some rest. I should arrive in the evening, your time, and I’ll take it from there. Better cancel your appointments in Hong Kong when you get a chance. There are usually a few loose ends in these situations, and I might need your help tying them up.”

“Sure. See you tomorrow, then. Or later today, I guess. It’s three thirty here.”

“I’m sorry, Sam. I know this wasn’t what you bargained for. I never should have asked.”

“If I’d only—”

“Please. Save it for later. I’ll call the lawyer. Stay strong, Sam.”

“Right.”

After hanging up he felt lonelier than ever, and faced the grim prospect of poking around in Charlie’s pockets for BlackBerrys, or phones, or whatever else needed salvaging. He found himself hoping that the bullets had destroyed any hardware so he could just leave everything in place. It was sticky and glistening down there, a slaughterhouse.

He peeled back a lapel of Charlie’s suit jacket, wondering vaguely why the man was fully dressed. Maybe he and the whore had finished their business and Charlie was preparing to leave. There was no BlackBerry, no phone. Next he checked the side pockets of Charlie’s trousers, finding a handkerchief, the entry ticket for the York, a silver Cross pen, and nothing more. That left the rear pockets. Sam wasn’t sure he could bear the idea of trying to roll the big man over in all this blood. The mere thought of rooting beneath the body made him gag. His fingertips were bloody, so he wiped them clean on the base of Charlie’s trousers. Then, carefully avoiding the pool of blood, he got down on his knees and poked his right hand beneath Charlie until he felt the bulge of a wallet in the right rear pocket.

No BlackBerry or phone there, either. But there was something tucked behind the wallet. Sam withdrew a thin datebook with a black vinyl cover and alphabetized tabs, the old-fashioned kind that no one carried anymore. Fortunately, it was clean. It was the closet thing to what Nanette had wanted him to look for, so Sam slipped it into his own lapel pocket for safekeeping. Then he stood, checked for bloodstains on his clothes, and slumped back into the chair. His stomach was heaving like a ship at sea.

That was when he heard the police. He wondered if the woman in blue sequins was with them. He hadn’t seen her since she hurried off to phone for help.

The first three cops shouldered noisily through the door. At first glance they looked as multinational as the York’s selection of prostitutes. The tall one in front was almost certainly Sudanese, and Sam was guessing the second was Egyptian from his noble Pharaonic face. Bringing up the rear was a possible local. All three wore khaki uniforms with berets.

The Egyptian took one look at the scene and flew into a rage. He grabbed Sam’s shirtfront, pulled him up from the chair, and shoved him against the desk.

“Why you do it?” he shouted. “Why you do it, huh?”

The Sudanese quickly restored order, prying them apart with a surprisingly gentle manner. He offered a few words of incomprehensible Arabic, presumably an apology on behalf of his colleague. The third one, who Sam would later learn was Jordanian, was already taking notes as he scanned the room.

A fourth cop entered, and the atmosphere changed immediately. He was older, early thirties perhaps. Unlike the others he was clean-shaven, and his uniform was lettuce green. He must have outranked them, because they stepped aside to offer clear access to both Charlie and Sam.

“Are you the witness?” he asked. He spoke English with a British accent.

“No. I’m his friend. And colleague. The woman who reported it might have seen it, but I don’t know where she’s gone. I did see two men running from the room. They were big guys, foreigners. Maybe Russian, but I’m not sure.”

The words came out in a rush, an outburst of dammed-up nerves, rage, sorrow, and probably some guilt as well. Jolly, reckless Charlie, dead on the floor in a mess of his own fluids, all of it happening while Sam stood in the bar, willfully ignorant, his phone switched off. He collapsed back into the chair. The officer placed a hand on his shoulder.

“I am Lieutenant Assad,” he said gently. “I know this has been a shock. Why don’t we go across the hall, where we can talk quietly.”

Sam nodded, temporarily emptied of words and emotions. Mostly what he wanted to do was take a long, hot shower, then collapse on a clean bed in a silent room. But at least now he could leave behind this horrible scene, although it felt like another act of abandonment. Another failure in a night filled with them.

“Lead the way,” he said.

The other office was almost identical, minus the body. Desk, chair, computer, printer, filing cabinet. Sam wondered anew why Charlie and the woman had gone there.

“Better?” Lieutenant Assad asked.

“Yes. Thank you.”

“My condolences for the loss of your friend.” He opened a small notebook and clicked a pen. “But the first thing I must ask you is what you were doing in the York Club?”

“Charlie was looking for a woman,” Sam said, deciding to be blunt about it.

“A particular woman? Or just any woman?”

“I don’t know. Whoever she was, he found her in a hurry. She’s the one who went for help. Where is she, anyway? I’d like to talk to her.”

“Sometime later, perhaps. When did you first realize he was in trouble?”

“About half an hour later. They’d just announced closing time, and the woman came running out to get me. Her dress was torn, and she looked scared, told me to hurry. Then we heard shots, or I guess they were shots. The two big guys came running out of the room, and that’s where we found him.”

“They were big? Tall, you mean?”

“Stocky, like weight lifters. But not that tall.”

“Describe them. Their faces, what they were wearing.”

Sam did so. The lieutenant nodded as he wrote it all down.

“Your friend, was he carrying a cell phone, or a BlackBerry?”

Sam looked down at his feet.

“No. Or if he was, somebody took them. I checked.” Assad raised his eyebrows. Maybe Sam shouldn’t have mentioned that. He supposed he had better keep Nanette’s name out of this.

“Did you find anything else?”

“A handkerchief. A pen. His wallet. I left them in his pockets.” He decided not to mention the datebook, and immediately wondered if it was the right move.

“I’m surprised you had the stomach for it.”

Sam shrugged and looked away. He knew he must look guilty, and the detective was eyeing him closely. Maybe he’d need that lawyer, after all.

Mercifully, Assad flipped a page in his notebook and moved on.

“Have the two of you been together since your arrival in Dubai?”