Layover in Dubai (41 page)

“All right, then. Choose some other place. But do it quickly. Sharaf will be looking for us for sure.”

Sam tensed at the door. His grip on the gun was slippery with sweat. Should he keep waiting or go now? As if to answer the question for him, Sharaf’s cell phone rang loudly in his pocket.

“Who’s there?” Nanette called out from the conference room.

“Boris?” a Russian voice said.

Sam stepped through the doorway and turned his gun on the others as he sidled toward Laleh. Sharaf’s prediction proved true. The Tsar, Hedayat, and the lone goon merely looked puzzled, even annoyed, but the other three—Liffey, Assad, and especially Nanette—stared in openmouthed shock. The dead man walked.

“Sam?”
Nanette exclaimed. “But …?”

Assad reached for his holster. Sam’s nerve failed him just long enough for the man to pull the gun free, but he finally squeezed the trigger as Assad was leveling the weapon to fire. As he did, someone grabbed him from behind, and he felt them both tumbling backward as two blasts rang in his ear, deafening. He felt a powerful blow to the back of his head, as if someone had torn open the base of his skull, and his last fleeting thought was to wonder how Assad had managed to hit him at such a poor angle, and with such a devastating exit wound.

Then, for the second time in as many days, he was out, oblivious, erased from the moment.

Anwar Sharaf watched in agony as the numbered lights flickered in sequence, floor by floor, as the elevator rose to twenty-one.

“Stay behind me when the doors open,” Mansour said to his left.

“Are you crazy? I’ll be the first one in if I have to kill you.”

The elevator slowed. Sharaf raised himself up on the balls of his feet. Just as the doors began sliding apart, two gunshots echoed sharply, and he cried out in anguish. He shoved through, banging his shoulders. The Tsar and Hedayat were stumbling toward him in an open doorway, looking confused and disoriented. Some goon was coming through in their wake. Sharaf didn’t even pause. He ran past them, gun raised as he looked wildly about him, trying to take in the whole scene at once.

Laleh lay on her back to his right, her eyes open. Keller was on top of her, faceup, eyes also open but horribly fixed and glazed. Assad was sprawled across a chair at the far end, blood gouting onto the long wooden table. He groaned, clutching his chest. The redhead, Miss Weaver, stood next to Hal Liffey by the windows in a far corner. Their hands were raised. Mansour rushed around the table to detain them. Sharaf dropped to one knee and grabbed Laleh’s hand.

“Laleh! Are you—?”

She pulled her hand free and struggled from beneath Keller, then raised herself onto her knees, gasping like an exhausted runner. Her clothes were bloody, but Sharaf realized joyously that the blood wasn’t hers. Then his relief turned instantly to shame as he saw that the blood was Keller’s. The young man still wasn’t moving a muscle. Mouth slack, eyes locked. Sharaf dropped his gun, but Laleh was a step ahead of him as she checked the American’s pulse.

“I think he’s all right,” she said.

“But he’s—”

“Out cold. His head hit the table as I was pulling him down. Assad was about to shoot. He’s been hit in the shoulder, but nowhere else. Call an ambulance.”

“We can use the one downstairs. What could you possibly have been thinking, Laleh?”

They embraced on their knees, and he felt her relax into a sob.

“Brave girl,” he whispered. “And a damned fool. If you think Assad was dangerous, wait until your mother sees you.”

They shook together in laughter and relief. And that was the scene that Sam Keller opened his eyes to, seconds later. Looking up sideways from the floor, he saw the blur of father and daughter embracing, yet kneeling as if in prayer. At first he was groggy enough to believe it was a dream.

Then Sharaf looked down at him and smiled. The man looked exhausted, grateful. Or he did until Laleh reached down and gently stroked Sam’s cheek, at which point the father frowned. Only then was Sam convinced that this must all be real.

It took one day of hospital treatment and two days of paperwork for Sam Keller to convince Hal Liffey’s consular replacement that he wasn’t really dead.

By then, Liffey, Nanette Weaver, and Lieutenant Assad had all begun pointing fingers at one another, while the mobsters kept their own counsel. The conspirators might well have maintained a united front of silence if not for the digital recorder that Laleh had been wearing on the evening they kidnapped her. But as soon as its contents became known, the accused began spouting a flurry of conflicting cover stories, too complicated for anyone but well-trained attorneys to puzzle out, at the rate of $500 an hour.

Still, the rogues were making progress of a sort. Of the ten people arrested that morning, only two of the hapless goons hadn’t yet mustered enough money and connections to be released on bail.

Fifty young women from Iraq, meanwhile, had arrived dehydrated and seasick early Tuesday morning aboard the container ship
Global Star
. They were now resting comfortably on the government’s tab at an airport hotel, awaiting repatriation to a more peaceful part of their home country.

You might say that Sam Keller was doing the same thing, albeit under more posh circumstances at the Shangri-La. His new passport had finally arrived only an hour earlier, delivered by courier along with a ticket for an Emirates nonstop to New York. Economy class, but he’d take it. The airport taxi was due in an hour.

As Sam sipped a gin and tonic in the lobby bar, luggage at his feet, he was already wondering who would prove to be more difficult—the consular officials who had grudgingly sorted out his details or his old employers at Pfluger Klaxon. Innocent or not, in the eyes of each group he had unpardonably damaged reputations by exposing the misdeeds of valued employees. He might need a lawyer as much as Nanette.

But at least two people remained indisputably on his side, and Sam watched as they approached him across the palatial lobby. They were quite a sight amid the gathered opulence and Western fashion—a slender young woman sheathed in a black abaya and a pudgy fifty-something cop, in uniform, with a droopy mustache and a stupid red beret. A few tables over, a trio of cosmopolitan-looking Euros had already drawn a bead on the pair, and one was snickering behind his drink.

Sam stood to catch their eye. He pulled out a pair of chairs and bowed theatrically.

Sharaf smiled. So did Laleh.

“Oh, my God, they’re with
him,”
someone muttered to his left.

Sharaf’s smile broadened as they reached the table. He held out a fleshy hand, then pulled Sam into a firm embrace.

“Amina also sends her farewell,” Sharaf said, “although I will not pretend she was eager to deliver the message personally.”

“Can’t blame her,” Sam said. “She could’ve lost you both. Besides, I think I forgot to make the bed that last morning at your house.”

When Sharaf released his grip, Laleh leaned forward and lightly touched his forearm. The gesture put a dent in Sharaf’s smile.

“How is your shoulder?” she asked.

“Sore, but no lasting damage. I’ll have the bandage off in a few weeks. What about you? Holding up okay under the glare?”

The Sharafs were still reeling a bit from all that had happened, especially with regard to its impact on Laleh and her reputation. The local newspapers had covered the events extensively, but their accuracy hadn’t always matched their zeal. Laleh emerged as a hero but also as something of a libertine, and there had been loads of innuendo with regard to what must have gone on between her and the young American.

To help calm things down, Amina and Anwar had decided it would be best to send Laleh away for a while, by letting her take her long-desired trip to New York. Her brother Yousef would return from his own European travels to escort her, and she would be staying with protective aunts and uncles living in New Jersey. Sam wasn’t yet supposed to know any of this, but Laleh had passed along the details in a series of surreptitious texts and e-mails. He had been wondering if Sharaf would dare mention it now.

Sam got his answer sooner than he expected. As soon as father and daughter had taken their seats, Sharaf waved away an approaching waiter and said, “Laleh, dear. I have some important business to discuss with Mr. Keller before we say good-bye. In private, if you don’t mind.”

She rolled her eyes and looked to Sam, who answered with a shrug.

“I’ll go look at the postcards,” she said. “But only a few.”

Sharaf watched until she was out of earshot.

“You may already know this, Mr. Keller, but my daughter will soon be traveling to your own city of New York.”

Sam tried to look surprised.

“Good for her,” he said.

“Perhaps my relatives who will be taking care of her will invite you to their home in New Jersey one evening for dinner.”

“If they do, I’ll gladly accept.”

Sharaf went on to describe the various layers of escorts and chaperones who would be surrounding Laleh at all times during her stay, generally making it sound as if getting time alone with her would be more difficult than wedging your car into a presidential motorcade.

Not that Sam was too concerned. If he could wind up alone with her in an empty office at daybreak in the heart of Dubai, then certainly he should be able to beat the odds on his home turf. Sharaf must have realized this as well, judging from his next words.

“All the same, Mr. Keller, I know firsthand that you are a resourceful young man. So I ask only that if and when you do see my daughter in America, that you act responsibly, and with the greatest of care for her feelings. Yes?”

“Of course. I wouldn’t think of treating her in any other way.”

Sharaf studied his face for a moment. Then he nodded, resigned if not entirely placated.

“I still cannot believe my wife thinks this trip is a good idea. But she feels it is the only way Laleh will ever regain her privacy. The worst of it is, that jackal Assad is spreading the foulest rumors. But try explaining that to one of these salivating fools from the
Gulf News.”

“So what will happen to you next?” Sam asked. “A promotion?”

Sharaf chuckled dismissively.

“Doubtful. The Minister, at least, is happy. I suppose that will always be worth something.”

“Wasta?”
Sam asked.

“Oh, major
wasta
. Perhaps a lifetime supply. As for the police, well, you never earn much credit by bringing down one of your own.”

“Tell me about it.”

“You, at least, can always go to work for the competition. Not an option for me, unless I want to end up like Assad. Ah, here comes Laleh.” He scraped back his chair and stood. “I will say good-bye, then, and let her say her own farewell in private. She demanded that of me before we came, and you have seen how powerless I have become in refusing her demands. That is what always becomes of fatherhood, I suppose. Eventually no one pays any attention to you at all.”

“If that means she has learned to think for herself, then you’ve raised her pretty well.”

It wasn’t clear from Sharaf’s uncomfortable expression whether he considered that a compliment or not.

“So long,” Sam said, holding out his right hand. Sharaf took it, and again turned it into a hug, and he whispered quickly into Sam’s ear.

“I will forever think of you as I think of my oldest friends, those who dove the deepest waters with me.”

Sam felt two meaty slaps across his back, then Sharaf released him and departed without a further word.

Laleh made her way past the other tables to his side. They remained standing. It was clear to Sam that she didn’t plan to sit.

“I won’t be able to hug you like him, you know. Not out here in the open.”

“I know.”

“So I guess all I can really do is say good-bye.”

“You could say, ‘See you in New York.’”

She smiled.

“My aunts and uncles will be watching me like hawks. So give me at least a week to make them feel secure. Then we’ll see what we can arrange.”

“I’m sure we’ll think of something.”

“We always have.”

She fleetingly touched his hand, then turned to go. Over her shoulder, Sam saw Sharaf watching intently from beyond the tables, with a hint of a smile playing at his lips. The old policeman called out to him one last time.

“One more thing you should know about me, Mr. Keller. In addition to speaking five languages, I am also an expert at reading lips.”

Sam couldn’t help but laugh. Fortunately, Sharaf joined in.

Like any city that has grown up fast and lives at top speed, yet still conceals a core of slower and more traditional culture, Dubai is not an easy place to get to know in a hurry. But during my visit there for a few weeks in the spring of 2008, many people were generous with their time, experience, and insight in helping me to at least make an attempt, and I would like to thank them.

At the top of the list is the courageous and irrepressible Sharla Musabih, founder of the City of Hope shelter for battered women. Ms. Musabih and her work are such irresistible forces that it was probably inevitable that she would inspire my portrayal of the fictional Yvette Halami, and her Beacon of Light shelter. Thanks also to City of Hope caseworker Yeshi Riske, for offering a wealth of anecdotes and information about the lives of imperiled women in Dubai.

Thanks also for the many observations on daily life—from both locals and expats—offered by Ahmed Al Attar, Zeyad Al Majed, Doug Cousino, Dhruv Dhawan, Elizabeth Drachman, Nancy Mahmoud, and several others.

For insights into Dubai’s legal system, I’d like to thank Jack Greenwald and John Dragonetti, who also shared their observations on the sleepier way of life in pre-boom Dubai. The fascinating Dubai Museum also helped me shape portraits of the past. But I owe a special thank-you in this department to the invaluable
Telling Tales
(Dubai: Explorer Publishing, 2005), a fine collection of Dubai oral histories from all walks of life, compiled by journalist Julia Wheeler and photographer Paul Thuysbaert.