The Miraculous Plot of Leiter & Lott (6 page)

After the videos were repeated three times in succession, with a voiceover commentary about the CIA's hopeful use of this visual evidence in retracing the flight path and identifying the drone's origin of manufacture, Doug cut off the TV. Next he picked up his cell phone and called
Nasheed
, only reaching his answering machine. "Can't take any more of this," he confessed, at last. "Going stir crazy. How about a little sightseeing drive?"

David considered the other option--that of waiting for the sky to fall, cooped up with the same doom and gloom he'd come here to escape. "I'm ready if you are," he said, at last.

~ * ~

They took the elevator down to the parking garage, reclaimed the Jaguar, and soon edged out of the building into
Baniyas
Road, expecting gridlock at the nearest intersection. But the streets were oddly quiet now. So much so that Etherton laughed. "Never seen it like this before, old man," Doug said, and roared ahead to beat the traffic light. "Even on a Ramadan Friday."

On their way to
Jumeirah
Beach, they searched for a talk radio station, settling on Dubai Eye, 103.8 FM. Although he wanted to close his
 
eyes for needed sleep, maybe even to drift off, sunken down into the Jag's plush leather cushioning, David was kept awake, not just by the talk show host and
Etherton's
newly exuberant driving---as though he'd just won the car in a lottery---but also by the most delicious eye candy he'd ever seen. Despite news helicopters, the skyline was ravishing.

"Oops," Doug interrupted his reverie, turning away from a police checkpoint on the Business Bay loop. "I know a shortcut."

As they roared for the beach, occasionally passing a Maserati or Porsche out for a typical high speed joy ride, the CNN-styled Dubai Eye host came up with a surprise---a news flash factoid gleaned, no doubt, from the wire services and presented as though just heard from Allah's lips in an octave too high for the competition to plagiarize:

Host
: "Mark Swann wasn't the only casualty at the target

condo. Mrs. Dorothea Swann, wife of real estate mogul

Gregg Swann, was apparently also in residence, awaiting

the return of her husband from a hunting safari in Kenya."

Etherton pulled over next to a public park. Then he rolled to a stop, a look of puzzlement plying the shadows on his face. But as the
Burj
Al-Arab came into view, though, David was diverted, and got out of the car to walk rapidly to the right, toward a spot that afforded a better view.

"Wait! What--"

David stared at what he remembered had been described as the most stunning hotel on Earth, the massive sail-like structure rising from its ocean platform base as the first signature symbol of the city's unique architecture.

"Wait up!" Doug admonished from behind him, but he didn't stop until a hand landed on his shoulder and turned him around. "What's the matter with you?"

David hooked a thumb. "There are cocktails at the restaurant atop that hotel that cost two thousand dollars each," he said, with almost the same sense of awe he'd once experienced helping to measure the red shift of a gravitationally lensed quasar.

"Probably half that price these days, buddy, but still out of your budget unless you also bought BP stock
after
their Gulf of Mexico spill," Doug quipped.

David turned to gaze again at the
Burj
Al-Arab. "First time Ted
Cashman
came here, though, that's where he stayed. . . praise the Lord, and pass the bucket." He smiled. "I should be angry. I
was
angry."

"And now you're just obsessed?"

"No. Curious. And I want to meet them.
Cashman
and
Innes."

"Really? Why? And why not P.
Diddy
and
Kanye
West and whatever members of the Trump family are in town?"

"Them too."

Doug came around to stand in front of him, looking into his eyes like a doctor might. "You okay?"

"Better."

"You keep saying that, although it doesn't sound like you heard the news."

"What news is that?"

"About Swann's family. Because now I might be able to swing Gregg Swann for you, if not the others. Since
Nasheed
knows him, and since his family just died. And because we'll be going to the funeral."

"We will? Why is that?"

"I have questions, for one thing."

"So do they, apparently," David said.

"Who?" Doug asked.

He motioned one final time in the direction of the
Burj
Al-Arab, where two police officers now approached them on foot, walking briskly across the park--one of them with hand raised, the other with a hand on his holstered pistol.

The interrogation room he was hustled into resembled an upscale lavatory, complete with tiled floors and walls, a toilet stall, sink, and a suspiciously inset mirror too large for its usual purpose. The only thing out of place was the metal table and chairs.

When the door finally opened, after ten minutes' silence, an Arab man in a white cotton shirt bearing a Dubai Police detective I.D. tag came in with a manila folder, and sat opposite him. The man had a neatly trimmed goatee, appeared to be in his mid thirties, and possessed wide-set but piercing brown eyes, and a predilection for slow, deliberate movements. After silently reading the two sheets of paper the file contained, he looked up, directly into David's own eyes.

"You are an engineer from Arizona," he said, speaking perfect English, but betraying no hint of direction or judgment.

"Yes," David confirmed, giving nothing back. "What's this about?"

"This?"

"Yes. This." David offered one open, upraised palm.

The man nodded, then looked back down at his thin file. "It says. . .
here
. . . you are an optics engineer."

 
"Was.
I'm on vacation now."

"In the company of your friend, Dr. Etherton?"

"Yes."

"Can you tell me why you evaded a police check point?"

"Ask Doug, he was driving."

"We are."

He felt a slight shiver at the man's emphasis of the word
are
, but hoped it didn't show. "Just sight-seeing is all, not looking for trouble."

The man's eyes narrowed for a second, then he propped up his chin with one hand, the forefinger pointing toward his temple. "Are you aware the city is under siege by American military aircraft?"

He wondered whether he should laugh or not. "Has that been established?"

A pause, then a pulling back. "What do
you
think, Mr.
Leiter
? After all, you are an expert, no? You own the patent on an imaging device used by your military, do you not? A device that could be used on a UAV or unmanned aerial vehicle."

He licked unusually dry lips, for which there was no reason except that he might be dealing with people who knew nothing of reason. "I don't know what to think. I haven't really thought about it."

A slow blink. "And you were going where?"

"Again, you'll have to ask Doug. I'm just along for the ride."

The man rose, took his file, and without another word left the room. David tried the door after a moment, but found it locked. Half an hour later it opened again. This time the detective carried only his passport.

"Before we let you go," he said, "can you tell us why you chose Dubai to vacation?"

David looked closely into the man's eyes. Something new was there, sure enough. Something which made him hold onto the passport instead of extending it prior to a response. He imagined being in the detective's place, looking at this tourist known to be an engineer, and wondering if there was some connection to a terrorist crime requiring specialized expertise in various fields of engineering, including optical imaging and targeting. Was it possible that David
Leiter
was CIA, or a private soldier of fortune assisting a clandestine operation?

Before we let you go,
the man had said.

David glanced over at the long mirror over the sink. Had he been filmed, and his voice tested for stress? Had they needed half an hour to analyze or to run the film through known channels? Or was he just being paranoid again?

Guessing that a simple Google search might have extracted his blog from some secondary source, David confessed, "I've always been fascinated with the city, ever since a televangelist named Ted
Cashman
moved here to escape scrutiny by his detractors."

"Detractors. Like you?"

"I once wrote a blog about him, among others, yes."

"Gregg Swann?"

"No, I don't know about Swann, and like I said, my blog is history. I've moved on."

The detective stared at the ceiling for a moment. "All the same, Mr.
Leiter
, I hope you won't mind if I hold onto your passport for a few days." He held up the little blue book as though daring him to take it.

"What will I use as identification, then?" David asked.

"Your driver's license will do. If not, you can have them call me."

With this, the detective withdrew a business card from his pocket, and like a magic trick handed that over instead, pocketing the passport as his next official act.

Noting the name, David said, "Anything you say, Mister. . ."

"
Muaz
Salik
."

~ * ~

He rejoined Etherton in the lobby, but they didn't speak until outside and walking toward a parking garage festooned with concrete pillars and directional signs in Arabic.

"Guess I shouldn't have taken that shortcut," Doug lamented. "Sorry about that." Glancing at a Rolex, his friend added, "Almost lunchtime. Let me make it up to you. Fancy a steak? Sushi?"

David grabbed his forearm for a second. "Doesn't it bother you, what just happened in there?"

"They're just being paranoid. It's what cops do when their city is bombed." He shrugged. "Don't worry about it. This isn't Saudi Arabia. We'll get our passports back."

“Although two of the nine-eleven conspirators were from the UAE?”

They drove to the beach, beside the
Burj
Al-Arab, where Doug wondered aloud if it was even open to non-guests on Friday. At first David figured Etherton was antsy about the probable lunch tab at the world's only seven star hotel, but when Doug settled instead on the Epic Cafe inside the Trump International Hotel and Tower, newly opened on the trunk of the Palm Islands, he decided money had been little consideration after all.

The Epic's floor was marble, the tables glass. Blue sectional curtains divided tall, narrow tinted windows that held intermittent views of the Arabian Sea beyond. David ordered a
Mahi
sandwich, then tilted his head, shifting his eyes toward an unusual couple seated at the end of the long, ebony bar. The man there was late sixties, ruggedly handsome, with dark gray hair and beard. He wore a tailored black sport coat with a white shirt, open at the collar. A red handkerchief barely protruded from his lapel pocket, and square silver cufflinks adorned his protruding sleeves. His female partner was also Caucasian, but early thirties, tall, gorgeous, with short brown hair and the perfect skin of a model. They both sat at an angle, partly facing each other, but occasionally making eye contact with a passing guest.

"What's their story, do you think?" David asked, out of curiosity.

Etherton chuckled, leaning forward. "You don't recognize him? That's 'the most interesting man in the world.' From those beer commercials a few years back. Except now he works for
Ivanka
."

"Trump hired him? As what. . .
decoration?"

"I'm sure they're well paid to mingle." Doug leaned back, scanning the other patrons in the room. "Lot of wealthy Japanese come here. Quite a few celebrities, too. Rooms start at two grand a night, no discounts. They can't really lower the price, or they'll have people from the Atlantis resort coming over to stay. Extras in the way of ambiance, like this, helps maintain exclusivity."

David snickered. "Since when did you become a hotel buff?"

"You mean like Gregg Swann?"

"Yeah. Tell me about him too."

"Don't know much. He's a Stanford grad, son of a refinery tycoon, former friend of The Donald. Only met him once, at a party thrown for Prince Edward.
Shakil
introduced me."

"But you have questions, you said."

Doug scratched at his beard, then lowered his voice. "I have a theory."

"Which is?"

"Something you can help me with, when we get back to the condo. I'd rather not speculate here."

"Why is that?"

"See that guy at the other end of the bar? No, don't look for a second." He paused, smiling slightly. "Okay."

David turned to see a dark, clean shaven Arab man in a blue shirt, sipping at a Heineken. "Yeah?"