Layover in Dubai (38 page)

“Don’t you see? Interrogation, debriefing, and full consultation. If we can present them with an immediate and serious threat to their operation, that’s how they will respond. And given the timetable for delivery, I’m betting they’ll respond right away.”

“What kind of threat?” Keller said.

“Basma. At the first hour of business tomorrow she will telephone the police department and ask for their ranking authority on vice. She will of course be referred to Lieutenant Hamad Assad. She offers to share with him a most interesting tale of a human-trafficking operation using a new means to smuggle goods into the country. But she is worried, very worried, about her own safety, so she will only meet him on neutral ground, at a place of her choosing. Of course, that is the very sort of location Assad will prefer. The last thing he would want is to have her show up at the police station.”

“And you think he’ll rally the troops?” Keller said.

“Does he have any choice, seeing as how all the troops are here in town? Especially after what happened to the last fellow who decided to handle things on his own?”

Ali nodded.

“That part is plausible,” he said. “Even at 1 a.m., with kebabs rolling around my stomach. But what will the location be?”

“I was thinking you could provide one. A place with actual neighbors, so the watchers can blend in with the scenery.”

“Yes. I can arrange that.”

“We’ll have Mansour’s men wire the place, and we will stake it out from every angle. Every possible entry and exit, fully covered. Then, when all the players have arrived and had time to fully implicate themselves in the course of their debriefing, we’ll spring the trap.”

The only one who hadn’t spoken up yet was Laleh, and they turned to her now. She would have to play the most crucial role, and she didn’t look pleased.

“I suppose you want me to talk her into this,” she said.

“In the morning. After you’ve slept.”

“Well, I can already tell you that she won’t agree to it. Nor would I let her.”

“Oh, so it is up to you to decide for her now?”

“No. But it is her life that will be at risk. It’s one thing for you to do something stupid on your own. Quite another to ask someone else who won’t even know the real danger.”

“Oh, Laleh, come on. We’re talking about one person helping hundreds, maybe thousands. The greater good, Laleh!”

“It’s easy to say ‘one versus thousands’ unless you have to face the one.”

Sharaf sighed and regrouped.

“Right now, Laleh, even as we sit here, fifty girls just like Basma are locked inside cramped steel containers on the pitching deck of a ship at sea, probably vomiting their brains out. And you’re going to let that happen over and over again, just because the fate of a single young woman is in your hands? You’re the one who wanted to participate, Laleh. Well, participation comes with a cost, and the cost is responsibility. For Basma, yes. But also for those fifty young women, and however many more will keep coming if we fail.”

Laleh frowned and shook her head, almost a shudder. Sharaf hated pushing her, but it was a lesson she needed to learn. This was the hidden reality of the heady life in the arena. Remember this feeling well, my daughter, because the burden never lightens.

“I will ask her,” Laleh said. “But I won’t push. Write out your argument, and all your justifications. I will present it in your own words as you wish. But I won’t be an advocate, only a messenger.”

“Fair enough.”

It was settled, then. They discussed a few other arrangements and then went back to bed, where Sharaf supposed he might finally be able to sleep.

But he couldn’t, of course, not a wink, because now his plan seemed all too shaky, and riddled with holes. What if they didn’t take the bait? What if everyone didn’t show up? Or, worst of all, what if they simply sent an assassin to kill Basma? At this late date, who knew how they might really react, no matter what Liffey had said about contingencies?

Six hours later he was standing by the front window with a cup of coffee, stomach fluttering as he peeped through the blinds into the early-morning sunlight. Out by the curb, Laleh was climbing into a taxi. His girl, heading off on her mission to talk another poor girl into hers.

Shaky or not, it was all they had. The taxi pulled away from the curb. Their operation was under way.

Nanette Weaver lined up her supplies in front of the hotel mirror, a general preparing for battle. Arrayed before her were moisturizer, foundation, concealer, blush, shadow, eyeliner, and lipstick—all of it in demure little tubes, vials, and bottles, plus a chic mini-cube of molded Lucite.

Once, in a rare moment of budgetary curiosity, she had totted up the dollar value of this arsenal and had been mildly appalled by the result, especially once she added shampoos and conditioners. Despite the micro sizes necessary for travel, the damage had come to $271.

But excess in the defense of finesse was no vice, and today it was more important than ever that Nanette achieve just the right look. Because now was the time to take command, marshal the troops, set disarray back in order. Proper leadership was what they had been lacking, and at this crucial final hour she aimed to provide it.

A ruse lay in wait for them, of that she was certain. She had already foreseen its likely hazards, even when Assad hadn’t, and she had adjusted their plans accordingly. If she continued to have her way, then by day’s end the board might well be wiped clean of opposition.

As always, she would be relying more on wits, timing, and experience than on her makeup. But Nanette was the only woman in their dire little assembly. And her years of navigating the male channels of commerce had taught her that words and actions, no matter how compelling, were never enough. When a woman was presiding, men were just as likely to be swayed by a significant glance, a narrowed eye, even a flash of ankle. Or, in this part of the world, practically anything to do with hair, the very beacon of Islamic sexuality.

She applied moisturizer first. A dab and a swirl, then another. Clinique, as standard for the job as an AK-47 was for Third World insurrections. Next came the foundation, a pricey discovery from Saks called La Prairie Cellular Treatment. Imbued with sunblock, it was suited perfectly for Dubai, with shades calibrated by the number—3.4 for her. It even
felt
luxurious. At $70 an ounce, it had better.

Was the need for these preparations regrettable? Of course. But so was the need for going rogue, so to speak—meaning illegal in her case, when you got right down to it. Years ago she would have been appalled to even consider participating in such a scheme, much less designing it from top to bottom. But that was before she learned how little you accomplished playing by the rules. In government work they even demoted you for it. It was one reason she’d moved to the corporate world, where surely the meritocracy of the profit motive and the competitive ideal would finally reward her aboveboard way of doing things.

No, it hadn’t. Not when she had gone after the wrong targets. And if well-placed, well-paid executives could squirm free to such obvious self-benefit, then why couldn’t she? So she, too, crossed the line. Except she was the rare woman in a roomful of boys, meaning appearances still mattered.

Fitness, fashion, and grooming—that was the ridiculous state of play for a businesswoman with brains, the libidinous lie at the base of all corporate manners and mores. Glass ceiling? Certainly, but only so they could peek up your skirt once you climbed above it.

She opened a micro-bottle of concealer. Two light touches. For adding color she might have relied on her usual workout at the hotel fitness club. But any flush of genuine vitality always disappeared within an hour, so she opened the Lucite cube of blush—a cream, not a powder. Dior. A mere fifth of an ounce for $31.

Soon enough they would have the girl in hand, the stray named Basma who had eluded them for days. Then the muscle could go after Sharaf and his allies, whoever they might be. To succeed they needed to move carefully, deliberately, and she was the only one in the bunch with the necessary subtlety. But she still had to win the others over to her endgame. It was one reason she had insisted on this meeting, even at such a perilously belated moment.

Assad would be the toughest sell. And it wasn’t just due to his geographic sense of entitlement, as the group’s only true local. The bigger problem was cultural. At some level he would always regard her as a refined form of harlot and deal with her accordingly. Typical attitude in the Gulf States, so why not turn it to her advantage? Because men who dealt with women only as whores could be enticed to buy almost anything—in this case, her leadership.

It wasn’t just an Arab dynamic. She had even detected a hint of it in clever young Sam Keller, the human calculator. Granted, he had been exhausted at the time, but she recalled with wistful amusement the look on his face once she had finally maneuvered him onto the couch in her hotel room—the avid eagerness of a swimmer curling his toes at the edge of the pool, crouching for the dive. His erection had been unmistakable, and he hadn’t even tried to hide it. A symptom of his weariness, perhaps, because he had definitely been a smart one, and too curious by half. A worthy adversary.

Even at that, she had nearly tracked him down, barely missing him after narrowing the hunt to a computer terminal in a camera store in the Sonapur labor camp. Judging from the reports Assad’s people brought back from the scene—wild tales of vengeful Bengalis, a dormitory scuffle, and a midnight abduction—Keller must have fallen in with the wrong people, and a day later he had washed up dead on the shores of Dubai Creek.

Then the long-sought Basma had finally surfaced as well, by making a phone call to the police. Assad had played back the recording in his office to Liffey and her. Nanette’s Arabic was perfectly good, but Assad had insisted on translating anyway.

Assad: Those are among my duties, yes
.

He sounded hurried, disinterested, even careless. Nanette wasn’t at all surprised.

Basma: I have a crime to report
.

Basma: A smuggling crime, involving fifty girls. It is going to happen later today, on a container ship at Jebel Ali
.

There was silence. Pages shuffled. It sounded as if Assad had shifted the receiver in his hand. All the signs of a man regrouping, reassessing. And Nanette understood why. The precision of Basma’s information was shocking, unnerving.

Basma: Yes, because I was also brought in this way, and managed to escape
.

More silence. She had clearly thrown him for a loop.

Assad: I am. I am listening. You have my complete attention, Miss … Did you say your name? I am going to need a name to do this properly, you know, because this is a very serious charge you are making
.

Basma: My name is Basma. I come from Iraq. That is all I can tell you until we meet
.

Assad: Of course, Basma. Yes. I assure you that I take this matter just as seriously as you do. And if what you are saying is true—and I have no reason to disbelieve you—then we will need to meet, and very soon
.

Good, Nanette thought. When push came to shove, Assad had followed her wishes to the letter.

Basma: Yes
.

Assad: But not here. Not at the police station
.

His voice lowered to a whisper. It sounded like he was cupping his hand over the mouthpiece.

It is not always such a secure location, my office. I am sorry to say that not everyone here can be trusted with your kind of information
.

Basma: Yes. All right, then
.

Basma: No. I know of a place, too. It will have to be there
.

Assad: Well, perhaps. But time is short
.

Damn him, Nanette thought. He gave in far too easily on the location.

Basma: Seven o’clock, then. Tonight
.

Basma: Seven o’clock. I will call you at six thirty with the address
.

Assad: Don’t worry. I will make sure you are safe. And I will bring others who can also help you. Safety in numbers, okay? That way you don’t have to worry about trusting only me
.

Basma: Seven o’clock
.

Basma: I don’t know
.