Layover in Dubai (37 page)

Mansour had provided a bit of good news. Shipping records showed that the IMO number 9016742 belonged to a container ship called the
Global Star
. It was indeed due to arrive at Jebel Ali the next day, but not until 9 p.m., which bought them some extra time. Not that Sharaf had yet come up with any ideas. And for the moment he had other things on his mind as he opened the empty refrigerator in the model kitchen.

“I’m hungry,” he said. “I should have packed some of Halami’s free food in a bag while I was thinking.”

Ali, who had just arrived from the city, smiled and placed a greasy paper bag on the kitchen counter. He unrolled the top and bowed grandly, like a headwaiter serving filet mignon. The aroma of grilled meat filled the kitchen.

“Lamb kebabs, Anwar. From the take-out window of Special Ostadi Restaurant in Bur Dubai, your favorite. And, no, I did not forget the yogurt sauce, the bread, or the spices. Maybe it will sharpen your thinking. Yours, too, of course, Mr. Keller.”

Laleh had already gone to bed, heading off sleepily to the far end of the condo. The unit had been built with locals in mind, meaning its four bedrooms were divided between two wings to allow extra privacy for females.

Sharaf piled meat, yogurt, and greens onto a warm curl of flatbread. He was opening wide for his first sloppy bite when Ali produced a second surprise.

“Fresh clothes for all of you. I couldn’t have done it without your wife’s help, Anwar, especially now that the weasel Assad has placed a patrol car outside your compound. Amina told me to climb in over the back wall. She met me at the back door of Rahim’s house. She had taken the whole load over there in steamer pots and casserole dishes, making it look like she was delivering him dinner. She is a clever woman, your Amina. But I have to say, Anwar, she is very angry with you. With all three of you.”

“‘Hell to pay,’ isn’t that what Americans say?” Sharaf said, pausing gloomily between bites.

Sam sorted through the new wardrobe. A New York Knicks T-shirt, supposedly for him, plus baggy jeans, which, like the clothes in the previous batch, were a little too large. At least he still had his suit jacket, dirty or not. For Sharaf there was a freshly laundered
kandoura
, which looked as comfy as pajamas. Maybe it would be better to just go native.

Sharaf dug past his own clothes. He frowned as he reached the bottom of the pile.

“Look at this,” he said disdainfully, holding aloft a flimsy pair of red spiked heels. He used only his fingertips, as if he had just tweezered something disgusting from a clogged drain.

“High heels?” Sam asked, wondering what all the fuss was about.

“Laleh’s. The most scandalous pair she owns. Practically indecent. Amina knows I hate them.
She
hates them. Sending these over here is a deliberate provocation.”

“Hold your fire, Anwar. She told me to also give you this.” Ali set down
Crime and Punishment
and a half-quart bottle of camel’s milk, beaded with moisture. The wrinkles eased on Sharaf’s troubled brow. Ali picked up the book for a second look.

“Some title,” he said. “Maybe she
is
warning you.”

“No,” Sharaf said. “This is good. Her way of saying she might even forgive me. Or maybe she is just wishing us luck. God willing, we’ll need it. Mr. Keller, where’s that recorder? We had better listen to the rest of it while we eat. I’ll translate.”

They put it on the table and flipped the switch. To Sam it was all babble. Liffey and the two nameless Mafia lieutenants—he wondered if one of them might even be the unlucky Arzhanov—were speaking rapid-fire Russian. At first Sharaf didn’t seem impressed.

“Generalities,” he said, waving dismissively. “Everything vague and careful, all of it useless for our purposes. Your Mr. Liffey speaks very good Russian, I will say that. The Persian as well. Probably why he was chosen for this meeting, an act of deference to the Tsar.”

The voices droned on, pausing only when the waitress stopped to take orders for a fresh round of drinks.

“Too bad Assad was not with them. I’d like to have heard if he would have ordered a vodka,” Sharaf said. “Hypocritical infidel. Two-faced bastard.”

“Tell me again about those pork ribs you ate as a boy, Anwar,” Ali chimed in.

“Enough,” Sharaf said. “Let me listen.”

More Russian, more noncommittal grunts from Sharaf. Then he sat up straighter in his chair. He reached across the table to switch off the recorder, backed it up a bit, then listened again, eyes narrowed.

“What is it?” Sam asked.

“Some sort of alert on Charlie Hatcher, I’m guessing. Your Miss Weaver seems to have forwarded some instructions, which Liffey has duly repeated.”

Sharaf played it back for a third time, translating as Liffey spoke.

“‘Your organizations should be advised that our corporate sponsor has reported a possible security breach. Here is a photo and a few particulars for internal distribution, although for now our corporate sponsor would prefer to handle this matter from her end, with possible assistance from our law enforcement element.’”

Sharaf paused the recording. “He means Assad, of course.” He switched the recorder back on and resumed translation.

“‘She requests that your people be on standby for assistance. But she is adamant that there be no unilateral action by anyone. As she has previously indicated, she is well aware that your usual way of dealing with threats is immediate action. While that is bluntly effective, it is also inefficient. She points out that in the corporate world they first learn what they can from the source of the trouble—through briefings, interrogations, surveillance. In this way, potential debits can be turned into assets. Even then, liquidation occurs only after full consultation by all interested parties. She insists we proceed in a similar fashion. Any objections?’”

Both men grunted their assent. Sharaf again stopped the recording.

“Arzhanov’s death warrant,” he said. “He violated their security protocol. I suppose he panicked when he lost the GPS signal from your phone, especially when they saw where Mr. Hatcher had gone when you switched it back on.”

“Meaning that if I hadn’t switched it off, Charlie might still be alive.”

“No, no. You heard her advice about eventual ‘liquidation.’ They still would have hauled him in, probably the moment you left for Hong Kong. He would have died, but only after a full and thorough interrogation, meaning Basma would probably be dead by now as well. Your Miss Weaver would have insisted.”

“Maybe,” Sam said, wishing he was as certain.

“Absolutely,” Sharaf said. “You’re just going to have to believe that.”

“Why would a bunch of thugs let Nanette handle security?”

“I suspect she was a compromise choice. Neither the Tsar nor Hedayat would have trusted each other to provide it, not on a joint venture.”

The recording continued for another ten minutes, followed by silence. Sharaf frowned and switched it off.

“Instructive,” he said, “but still not helpful. Not for our immediate needs.”

“Which means we have what,” Sam asked, “about twenty-two hours?”

“Yes. We’ll intercept the shipment, of course. Mansour’s men can manage that.”

“And then they’ll be free and clear to rework their logistics and pick up where they left off.”

“Probably. Unless some great idea strikes me like a lightning bolt while I sleep.”

“Any clouds forming on the horizon?”

“Nothing but cobwebs. I am exhausted.”

“Same here.”

Both said little more before heading off to bed, discouraged. They left the recorder sitting in the middle of the kitchen table like an untapped secret. Sam showered, slid beneath the display coverlet onto a bare mattress, and was asleep within seconds.

Anwar Sharaf, however, couldn’t relax. Maybe it was the bump on his head. It stung under the harsh stream of the shower, and throbbed afterward from the heat. He climbed into bed and flipped off the lights, but he could only toss and turn.

Why so restless? Despite the conundrum of the case, he had plenty of reasons to finally relax. Laleh was back under the same roof, even if it was someone else’s. The American, Keller, was now safe, at least for the moment. And by this time tomorrow, fifty distraught young women would owe their salvation to his efforts.

Even the Minister would be mildly satisfied. The threads Sharaf had gathered might be too flimsy for a court of law, but in the right hands they could still be woven into enough dirty laundry to embarrass the Minister’s top rivals for months to come.

He was also exhausted, and had a full stomach.

So why couldn’t he sleep?

Sharaf sighed and threw back the covers. He switched the light on and trooped down the hallway to the kitchen, where he snatched the sweating bottle of camel’s milk from the otherwise empty refrigerator. He intended to take only a swallow or two, but the cool, velvety taste felt so good going down his throat that by the time he set the bottle down there was nothing but white coating on the sides of the glass.

He licked his lips, then belched with satisfaction. Just what he needed. He picked up the copy of
Crime and Punishment
and took it back to the bedroom. Half an hour of reading and he would be sleeping like a baby. Thank God for Amina, knowing just what he needed, even as she must have cursed his name and his infernal job.

Sharaf propped two pillows against the creaky headboard and opened to his bookmark. Too bad Amina wasn’t beside him, showing the curve of her back. He wouldn’t even have minded hearing her complain about how he was leaving the light on too late and disturbing her sleep.

He began to read, while trying to recall where he had last left the story. The guilt-ridden Raskolnikov had committed two murders many pages ago and was still on the loose. The young man’s fevered torment was growing tiresome, but at least now a detective of sorts had come onto the scene, an examining lawyer named Porfiry. Sharaf read with growing appreciation as Porfiry interrogated Raskolnikov, using an indirect approach that was clever and disarming—the very way Sharaf might have done it. This fellow Porfiry even looked like him, Sharaf thought, as he read Dostoevsky’s description: “‘God has given me a figure that can awaken none but comic ideas in other people,’ Porfiry said. ‘A buffoon.’”

Perfect.

Sharaf began to relax. A few more pages ought to do the trick. Raskolnikov grew more agitated as the interrogation proceeded, especially when Porfiry began describing how he always lured guilty suspects to their doom, particularly the smart ones:

Have you seen a butterfly round a candle? That’s how he will keep circling round me.… He’ll begin to brood, he’ll weave a tangle round himself, he’ll worry himself to death! What’s more he will provide me with a mathematical proof—if only I give him enough interval.… And he’ll keep circling round me, getting nearer and nearer and then—flop! He’ll fly straight into my mouth and I’ll swallow him, and that will be very amusing, he-he-he!

Sharaf put the book down and looked up at the ceiling, suddenly giddy with insight.

He had it, his bolt of lighting, the tool they had been seeking, not only to stop the delivery but to bring its architects into the basket and up from the deep. With a little help, they would be able to pry loose the biggest pearl in the ocean, sharks be damned.

It was time to wake everyone in the house.

Laleh, Ali, and Keller sat before Sharaf at the kitchen table. They were in a grumpy stupor, and still wondering why he had awakened them so urgently at ι a.m. The recorder remained at the center of the table—silent, waiting. It was to be the main prop in his presentation.

Waking Laleh had been the hardest part. Thinking like a cop, he had dashed to her bedroom first, knowing she would have to play one more role in this final move. But at her doorway he hesitated, overwhelmed by a burst of fatherly emotion. Light from the hallway cast a shadow across her face. He stepped to the bedside and brushed back her hair the way he had once done when waking her for grade school.

“Laleh?” he whispered. “Laleh?”

A flutter of eyelids.

“Yes?”

She was almost instantly alert. He then realized that for all the exertion and emotional strain, a part of her was immensely enjoying the cloak-and-dagger aspects of the past twenty-four hours. She was a player in the arena, out where decisions affected lives. He smiled in spite of his worry, admiring how easily she had taken to this new role, even though he still would have preferred to have kept her out of it.

“I need your help, one last time.”

She sat up, propped on her elbows.

“What time is it?”

“After midnight. But this can’t wait. We have to begin planning now, all of us. So get dressed and come to the kitchen.”

She nodded, obedient. He went to wake the others. And now there they were, looking at him like he had lost his mind.

Sharaf began his spiel.

“Good news. Lightning has struck. We have found the candle to attract our butterfly. All five of our butterflies, in fact, if I’m reading things correctly.”

“Butterflies?” Ali rubbed his eyes. “Anwar, what in God’s name are you talking about?”

“Let’s just say I know now how to bait the trap in a way that might well produce instantaneous results. Here, listen to this part of the recording again.”

Sharaf hit the PLAY switch, and Hal Liffey’s voice began speaking in Russian.

“He is saying that in the corporate world they first learn what they can from the source of the trouble—through briefings, interrogations, surveillance. In this way, potential debits are turned into assets. Even then, they only liquidate after full consultation by all interested parties.”

He switched off the machine.

“So?” Ali said.