Layover in Dubai (34 page)

“No wonder he was short on cash when we got to the York,” Sam said. “But he had already mentioned the date earlier that night, at the Alpine bar. That’s when he called it the day of reckoning.”

“So he knew it was important, but perhaps not why. Or not
exactly
why,” Sharaf said. “This recording, sir, when did you deliver it?”

Patel shook his head.

“I took it to work with me the next afternoon. Mr. Hatcher was supposed to come pick it up. But when I reached my locker, the bouncer from the earlier shift told me a policeman was waiting for me at the rope. When I looked through the door I saw he was one of the men from the photos.”

“Lieutenant Assad?” Sharaf said.

“Yes. I knew I was in trouble, so I left by the back. There was a police van with four more men in the main drive, so I crossed the hotel grounds to the beach and walked a mile along the water before cutting back to a bus stop on the main road. When I got home my family said the police had been there as well. That is when I came here, with Khalifa’s help.”

“Did you bring the recorder with you?”

Patel eyed them carefully. Sam held his breath.

“It is hidden,” Patel said. “It is what cost me my job. And if you want it, you must pay the other five hundred dollars that was promised.”

Patel folded his arms to indicate that his offer was final. Sharaf glanced at Sam.

“I’ve got a few hundred dirhams,” Sam said, “but that’s about it.”

“Nonsense. We’re not paying this little crook.”

Sharaf stood suddenly, then caught himself, swaying as he had before, which only served to make him angrier. Steadying himself, he pointed a finger at Patel.

“Here is how it will work,” he said evenly. Patel sat impassively, arms folded. “You will bring us the tape, here and now. In exchange, I will not tell Lieutenant Assad where you’ve gone. That is even more valuable than five hundred dollars, don’t you think?”

Patel unlocked his arms and lashed out.

“But you promised Khalifa!”

“Yes. But I, too, am a policeman.” Sharaf flashed his ID and flipped open his cell phone. “And with a single call, sir, I can summon an entire squadron to this doorstep within five minutes. So you will retrieve the recorder or else I will phone my colleagues. It is your choice.”

Sharaf began punching in numbers, each beep sounding like a tiny alarm bell.

“Stop!” Patel rose from his chair. “All right, you will have it, then! I will get it for you now!”

“We will accompany you.”

Patel flung up his hands in exasperation.

“As you wish, jackals!”

It was in the next room, stored behind a baseboard panel, which Patel loosened with a table knife. He sulkily handed it over.

Sharaf studied the buttons a moment, then pressed play. There was a rustling sound, then the clicking of footsteps, followed by a jarring thump as a woman’s voice said in English, “Some refreshments for you. And your drinks, of course.”

There were three light thunks on the table. Ice clinked in a glass as someone took a thirsty first sip.

“Thank you,” a man said in English.

“Hal Liffey,” Sam said. The mere sound of his voice made him angry.

The footsteps of the waitress receded, and Liffey got down to business.

“Two items, gentlemen. And I’d appreciate if both were reported promptly and precisely to your superiors. The first and most important is that our corporate sponsor informs me that the details are complete for the first major transaction, set for four-fourteen. No more dry runs, this one’s for real. Ready for the particulars?”

There was a pause, followed by a muffled sound of movement and a few stray beeps.

“I don’t believe it,” Sam said. “They’re getting out their BlackBerrys.”

Liffey spoke clearly and slowly enough for everyone to log the details. He said exactly what Patel had repeated in his recitation:

“Payload of fifty, I-M-O, nine-zero-one-six-seven-four-two. Jebel Ali terminal two, gate six, lot seventeen, row four. Should I repeat that?”

Two muffled voices answered, “No,” then Liffey spoke again.

“More people are coming into the bar. British, I think. Perhaps we should conduct the remainder of our business in Russian. Partly, of course, in deference to the man who helped bring us together. A toast, then, to the Tsar.”

There was a clink of glasses. The next voice was an outburst of Russian from one of the others. Sharaf checked his watch, switched off the recorder, and popped it into his pants pocket.

“We will listen to the rest later, when I have time to translate. For now we’re due at the Beacon of Light, where, if my guess is correct, we’ll find out more about their payload.”

“Fifty women,” Sam said, “and they’ll be arriving like livestock in two days. We better move fast.”

Among the high-wattage villas of Dubai’s Al Safa neighborhood, the Beacon of Light stood out more like a guttering candle—three stories of smudged stucco on a shaggy lawn, with a dented blue van at the curb.

The neighbors’ bigger gripe was the procession of sullen men who regularly cruised past or, worse, parked in the rear alley, idling their engines with the windows up while waiting for runaway spouses to show their faces at the windows.

The shelter regularly employed a guard, but on this particular afternoon Sharaf was surprised to see two of them lurking beneath the drooping palms, and both were heavily armed. They shouldered automatic weapons like island defenders awaiting an amphibious assault. Sharaf heard the unmistakable click of a safety as Sam and he approached.

“Easy,” Sharaf called out, showing his hands. “We’re friends.”

He seemed to be saying that everywhere lately. “We’re expected,” Sam added.

A guard patted them down and escorted them up the steps. A woman of uncertain nationality answered their knock. Looming behind her was a third armed man.

“We have an appointment with Mrs. Halami,” Sharaf said.

“Wait here.”

On the way over from Deira, Sharaf had tried to prepare Sam for the local phenomenon known as Yvette Halami. She was a Frenchwoman who had married an Emirati and moved to Dubai during the early years of the economic boom. A converted Muslim, she covered her head but never held her tongue, especially on the issue of how women were treated in Dubai.

She chain-smoked, knocked back espressos all day, conducted much of her business in English, and was forever answering a cell phone that rattled and rang like one long emergency. Her combative nature generated like-minded press coverage. Depending on which local paper you read, she was either a selfless advocate for the voiceless or a grandstanding loudmouth whose main goal was to embarrass men in general, and Emirati men in particular. Several of Sharaf’s colleagues couldn’t utter her name without cursing.

Almost any native-born woman would have long ago faded into the background against that kind of opposition. She seemed to revel in it, which only infuriated her enemies more.

Sharaf had largely been won over to Yvette’s cause by Laleh, and also by the assault victims he had interviewed over the years at the shelter. He had seen firsthand what happened when violent husbands, unpunished, were allowed to reclaim their wives from the law simply by signing a form promising they’d never do it again. He knew of one man who had done this eight times; he had seen all eight copies of the form—but no criminal convictions—stored neatly in the fellow’s police file.

Sharaf was ambivalent about Halami herself. He believed she was one reason his daughter had become so rebellious. For every hour Laleh volunteered at the Beacon of Light—preparing meals, manning phones, directing media strategy—she seemed to emerge that much sharper around the edges.

Halami appeared from around a corner, cell phone in her left hand, cigarette in her right. Her greeting was typically abrupt. No names, no salutations, just a blunt question in a burst of cigarette smoke.

“Were you followed?”

“If we had been, we’d be in custody by now,” Sharaf answered. “What’s with all the security?”

“You wouldn’t ask if you’d seen some of the goons who’ve been coming around. And I’m not talking about husbands. Pimps and their muscle. A very bad business.”

“Does this have anything to do with—?”

“Please. Don’t mention her name here. Follow me.”

She led them past her office to a makeshift canteen, where one woman was reading and another was taking popcorn from a microwave. Halami spoke to them in Arabic, and they exited without a word. Then she lit a fresh cigarette and responded to a beep by checking a text on her phone.

“Some flunky from the Ministry of Health was in my office yesterday asking about the same girl. Immigration came the day before that. Same name. Basma, Basma, Basma.” She moved her right hand like a yakking puppet. “For all I know, one or both of those fellows planted something near my desk to listen in, so I figured it was safer talking here. Any idea who’s behind all this interest?”

The heads of both agencies were allies of Assad’s, and rivals of the Minister, but Sharaf didn’t want to get bogged down in politics.

“The same people who are making life miserable for us, I’d imagine.”

“You know, it’s a good thing you mentioned Charlie Hatcher, or I’d have suspected you were one of them.” She gestured toward Sam. “Who’s this one?”

Sam answered for himself.

“Sam Keller. I was a friend of Charlie’s.”

“I am sorry for your loss. Charlie was our friend. Why are you dressed like that?”

Sam looked to Sharaf for help.

“The same reason I’m out of uniform. Let’s just say that we’ve had an interesting few days. Where is Basma?”

Halami’s phone rang. She answered instantly, ignoring them.

“Yes? Of course, but where? Ethiopia is my guess. They’re from villages on the brink of starvation. Someone puts up an Emirates Air poster with a nice photo of Dubai, and all you have to do is offer a plane ticket. An easy recruitment. Sure. Keep me posted.”

No sooner had she hung up than the phone rang again.

“Yes? Where? Good, very good.” She laughed with relish. “Another one bites the dust. We should have a party. Good. Later, then.”

She hung up. Sharaf was getting annoyed.

“Could you maybe shut that damn thing off for a minute?”

“No. They are my clients, Anwar. You’re just a cop, even though your daughter is one of the world’s great human beings, spoiled or not.”

“What can you tell me about Basma?”

“Our Jeanne d’Arc, you mean, if you will pardon the Christian metaphor. Sometimes I am more French than Muslim.”

“I noticed. Why a martyr? Is she dead?”

“Alive, but only by her own wits. I will leave it to Basma to answer your other question. Where did you hear her name? I doubt Charlie would have told you.”

Sam spoke up.

“It was in Charlie’s datebook, with a number for this place. She was listed next to Tatiana Tereshkova.”

“Another of our contacts from the trade. But I am worried about her, too. I can’t seem to find her.”

“Found, I’m afraid,” Sharaf said. “Several days ago.”

Halami lowered her cigarette.

“Dead?”

“She’d been shot. They dumped her in the desert.”

He said it more harshly than necessary, the very stereotype of the uncaring cop, and he felt bad about it as soon as he saw Halami’s reaction. She put a hand to her mouth and emitted a small cry, blinking twice. Her phone beeped, but she didn’t even glance at it.

“It’s where they take all of them,” she said quietly. “They just throw them on the ground and leave them for the birds. Tatiana was one of the Russian originals, from those Aeroflot caravans in the early nineties. Worked her way up through the system, then got disgusted with it. She was the reason Basma got away, she and Charlie. I suppose someone found out.”

“She was with Hatcher when he was shot.”

“Oh, dear. I didn’t know.”

“Hardly anyone does. And I doubt you will read about her in the papers anytime soon, not if some of my colleagues have their way.”

“Which is why I cannot trust you with the knowledge of Basma’s whereabouts. Not if they are after you as well.”

“Then I suppose we will never find out who killed Tatiana.”

She eyed them carefully.

“Charlie was the only man Basma trusted. Ever since he was killed she has been certain she will be next. That’s why we are hiding her. But she will not speak to any man. It’s a fact. You will have to deal with it.”

“We’re operating under a deadline. Finding a suitable female officer will not be as easy as you think.”

Halami smiled ruefully and flicked ashes into a Styrofoam cup.

“You know, Anwar, for such an intelligent man, you are sometimes a bumbling oaf. Because we both know of a woman who is not only suitable but is also readily available, and someone I trust.”

Sharaf saw where she was headed, and moved to cut her off.

“That is not an option. Laleh does not participate in my business.”

“More’s the pity. She is brilliant and compassionate—the very combination necessary to induce Basma to tell her story. You say she is not an option? Sir, she is your
only
option. Like it or not, she is already a part of this business, simply by her role in ours.”

Sharaf was exasperated. First Laleh, now Halami—both of them ordering him around, and taking events well beyond his control. Fine, let them. Why not just walk out of this place while his pride was intact? With the Minister’s help, he might still organize a team to raid Monday’s delivery at Jebel Ali.

The problem with that approach was that the scheme’s principals—Assad, the mobsters, the American woman—would be able to scramble right out of the net. He only had Liffey on tape, and even what he had heard of that conversation was vague enough for Liffey to argue that he was talking about some other commodity altogether, and with another bribe it might even be convincing to a judge. Sharaf still needed to dive deeper.