Layover in Dubai

8

A Bedouin stood watch over the body, knee-deep in a depression of sand some thirty yards off the empty highway. His face reminded Sam of one of those nineteenth-century lithographs of Apache warriors—weathered skin, perpetual squint, a latent fierceness held in abeyance by a taut frown. His hair was long and black, and he wore a traditional white headdress that he had looped into place with a black egal. A red Toyota Land Cruiser, presumably his, was parked on the shoulder.

Even with Sharaf pushing the Camry to the limit, it had taken nearly two hours to get there. As they braked to a halt, Sam saw that the body was barely visible from the road.

“How did he ever see it?”

“You or I wouldn’t have,” Sharaf said, his hand on the door latch. “The lazy people who dumped it wouldn’t have, either. That’s why they thought it was a suitable spot. But the Bedu always notice, and Daoud has an especially keen eye.”

“You know him?”

“Many years.”

Daoud approached the car. The two men greeted each other with a ritual of hugs and of hands placed on hearts. Daoud spoke while Sharaf listened. Sam didn’t understand a word.

Sharaf nodded and uttered a brief reply. Then Daoud led them to the body, where flies buzzed in a frenzy. Sam, bringing up the rear, saw immediately that it was the woman from the York.

She lay curled on her side, like she had gone to sleep, but there was a huge hole in the back of her head, gaping black and brown from dried blood and brain. The blue sequins of her dress shimmered in the late-morning sun, except across the front, where they were stained by blood. The dress was hiked up high on her thighs. Her hose were torn, and the end of a gun barrel poked from beneath her waist.

Sharaf stooped for a closer look, focusing first on her legs. They were bent at the knees, and her ankles were bound tightly to her thighs by a stiff white cord.

“To keep her from kicking while they had her in the trunk,” he said. “They didn’t shoot her until they got here, so they wouldn’t make a mess in the vehicle.”

Sam kept his distance, nauseous at the sight of the flies coming and going from her mouth, her nostrils, and the ragged cavity at the base of her skull. Sharaf continued with his observations.

“After they shot her, they tossed the gun into the depression and dropped her on top. Wiped all the prints first, no doubt. A Makarov nine-millimeter.”

“You can tell just from the barrel?”

“I saw the shells at the York. The rest is guesswork. We’ll soon know for sure.”

Daoud directed their attention to a nearby set of tire tracks. Sharaf straightened, watching carefully as the Bedouin crouched and ran his fingertips across the imprint. Daoud then gazed back toward the highway, scanning the vehicle’s looping path. He spoke for a few seconds.

“He says it was an SUV, a BMW X5. Two passengers besides the woman. They arrived a few hours before dawn, and they were in no particular hurry.”

“All that from the tire tracks? Do you believe him?”

“When Daoud was a boy, his father could look at a set of camel prints and tell you how many riders had passed, how recently, their tribes, what quarter of the desert they had come from, and whether any of the animals were stolen. The means of transportation have changed, but the Bedu can still read the signs of any passing traveler in the sand. Normally for even half that information you would need an entire crew from the crime lab, with markers and plaster casts. But why waste valuable resources when Daoud can offer an instant reading free of charge, simply out of friendship and honor.”

Sam looked at Daoud and nodded appreciatively.

“Salaam aleikum,” he offered, expending half his supply of Arabic.

“Aleikum salaam,” Daoud replied, nodding solemnly.

“He also found a set of footprints,” Sharaf said. “New shoes, heavy-set male. Had to be reasonably brawny to have unloaded the body by himself while his partner sat in the car.”

Daoud began to babble again, this time in a more animated tone. Sharaf turned abruptly and gazed back down the long, straight blacktop toward the city. A quivering black dot was barely visible in the shimmer of the horizon.

“They’re coming,” Sharaf said. He set out briskly for the Camry. “You need to get out of sight. Open the door on the opposite side and lie down on the floor in the back. Quickly.”

“Who’s coming?”

“Police. Two cars. Our friend Lieutenant Assad, would be my guess. Fortunately Daoud can see them long before they see us. But hurry.”

Sam wavered for a second, wondering which cop offered a better chance for freedom. Maybe the arrest was just Assad’s way of applying pressure. Further involvement with Sharaf might lead to anything.

“Now!” Sharaf said. “Any closer and it won’t take a Bedouin to spot you standing there like a fool.”

Sam obeyed, although it was all he could do to bend himself into position and pull the door shut from the floor. He heard Daoud speak.

“What’s he saying now?”

“There are three people in the lead car. Meaning Assad has reinforcements. The second vehicle is a meat wagon, for the body. Not another word from you until I say so.”

Sam obliged him by not answering.

A few minutes later he heard the whine of the approaching engines, then the sizzle of gravel in the wheel wells as they turned onto the shoulder and stopped. Doors slammed. There was a clatter of something metallic. A stretcher for the body, perhaps. Then a voice—Lieutenant Assad’s, followed by Sharaf’s. They spoke in Arabic, unfortunately, so he had no idea what they were saying. But the tone of mutual disdain was unmistakable. He imagined them squared off on the pavement. All that Sharaf had on his side was a silent Bedouin, a dead woman, and a hiding American. Not very promising. Sam stayed low to the floor, sweaty and uncomfortable, and hoped for the best.

“So,” Assad began, “you poach my murder scene, steal my main witness, and now this. It’s all very annoying, Sharaf, mostly because it creates the distinct impression of a pattern of deliberate interference. Care to explain?”

“I stole no one. Just needed to chat with him a moment, so I borrowed him from Habash. Then I gave him right back.”

“Well, he’s gone.”

“Who? Habash?”

“You know who I mean.”

“He couldn’t have gone far. He didn’t strike me as the resourceful type. In fact, he didn’t strike me as a Lothario, either, which made me wonder about your morals charge.”

“A Lo-what? Some character from one of your Russian novels, I suppose.”

“A ladies’ man. A seducer. And it’s from a play by an Englishman.”

Sharaf didn’t usually show off like that, but with the likes of Assad the temptation was too great.

“Whatever. Why did you even need a chat?”

“Paperwork from my needless visit to the York. Can’t claim the overtime unless I justify my presence.”

“Paperwork for that travesty? I’d very much like to see any report you file from that.”

“Likewise with yours. We’ll trade and call it even.”

Assad scowled and looked around. Sharaf hoped Keller was keeping his head down. He had to restrain himself from looking at the Camry. Fortunately neither Assad nor his two assistants made a move in that direction. Assad instead stepped toward the body.

“Who is she, anyway?” Assad asked.

“I was hoping you’d know.”

“Russian, I’m guessing. Not my kind of people. You’re the one who speaks their language.”

“Money and power is their language. I’ve heard you’re fluent.”

“You never did say what you’re doing here.”

“Daoud is an old friend. He found the body. You’ll have to forgive him for playing favorites. Obviously someone else must have phoned it in as well. But I’m happy to leave the matter in your hands. There’s a Makarov beneath her, by the way. Please make sure it finds its way to the evidence room. And whenever you’re interested in trading reports, my offer stands.”

Assad scowled and didn’t reply. Sharaf crossed the highway to the Camry and climbed in, taking care not to open the door too widely. As he started the engine he hissed a warning to Keller, locking his lips like a ventriloquist.

“Stay down. The lieutenant has his eye on me.”

And a baleful eye it was, making Sharaf wonder yet again what he was getting into, sinking deeper by the minute into choppy waters. He eased the car into a slow, looping turn to head back toward the city. Fluency in money and power, indeed. Sharaf shook his head. It was a stupid thing to have said.

He waited a full mile before he spoke again.

“Maybe you had better stay down for the whole ride. It would not do either of us any good to be seen together.”

“Where are you taking me?”

“Excellent question. For the moment I have no answer. They will have the hotel staked out, of course, so that’s not a possibility. Do you have your passport?”

“Yes. But not my phone or my BlackBerry. They’re at the hotel. Wouldn’t it be safer if you just took me to the U.S. Consulate?”

“Maybe. They might even decide to fly you home, possibly as soon as tonight.”

“Sounds good.”

“Not to me. I cannot afford to have them put you beyond my reach. Remember our deal? I help you, you help me?”

“I don’t remember agreeing. And I’m not sure I’d call this helping.”

“Getting in the car with me and hiding from Assad was just as good as an answer, wouldn’t you say so? You are in this now whether you like it or not.”

“You did promise to let me call Ms. Weaver.”

“And so I shall. The timing is another matter. Why put her in jeopardy with knowledge of your whereabouts until we’ve decided upon a secure location?”

“But maybe she could—”

“Please. I will judge when it is best.”

“But if I—”

“Quiet, sir. I need to think.”

He also needed to calm down. Having Keller in the car was like driving a load of stolen goods. He kept expecting Assad’s car to come roaring up from behind, headlights flashing. But as the miles passed with nothing but the whine of the tires and the whoosh of passing trucks, Sharaf relaxed, and his mind drifted into memories that had been stirred by the sight of his old friend Daoud.

As a young boy Sharaf had considered the Bedouins to be foolish, living in their goat-smelling tents far from the comforts of the city when, like him, they could have dwelled along a tidal creek, with its cool breezes and fine homes. Then, at age eleven, he met Daoud. It happened when his father, flexing the muscle of sudden wealth and new connections, purchased four hunting falcons and got himself invited on a royal hunt.

His father had bought the birds at a dear price from a desert trader. He gave one to Sharaf, who was supposed to keep the bird with him morning, noon, and night, in order to properly feed and train it. Sharaf’s tutors were delighted. Sharaf wasn’t. Going to sleep with a bird of prey in your bedroom was downright creepy. It preened and fretted, and its little leather hood made it look like it was awaiting execution.

When the time came for the royal hunt, Sharaf accompanied his father and their four birds. They rode in the back of a Range Rover, one of three vehicles in a royal procession packed with two dozen men and boys. They drove for hours, deep into the desert. That evening Sharaf watched in fascination as Sheikh Rashid’s men set up the encampment—an oval of tents with a surrounding screen of palm fronds, to keep out the wind, the snakes, and the scorpions. They put a fire ring in the middle, along with a giant kettle.

Sharaf slept in a tent with two of Sheikh Rashid’s younger sons and their friends. They were welcoming enough, but were several years older, and he would have felt lost if not for Daoud, who was his own age and also an outlier of sorts. Daoud’s father was the hunting party’s Bedouin tracker and guide.

In the morning, after prayers and breakfast, everyone stood at the ready, birds on their arms. Sharaf remembered his father looking particularly proud, although he had already heard some of the other men making fun of the names his father had given their birds. Sharaf had expected nonstop action, but the hunt evolved slowly as the sun climbed above the dunes. It was a painstaking process of stalking and waiting while Daoud’s father searched the sand for fresh footprints of the elusive houbara.

After a fruitless few hours, Sharaf’s father, thinking he knew better, released all four of their birds anyway to go search for prey on their own. Sharaf was surprised to feel a tug of sorrow as he watched his own bird disappear over the horizon. Half an hour later, Daoud’s father found a promising set of tracks, and sent the rest of the birds off in the opposite direction from the Sharaf falcons. Even then, success wasn’t guaranteed. In all, the hunters released more than forty birds, and by day’s end nine hadn’t returned, including one of Sheikh Rashid’s. It was apparently common for some of the falcons to lose their way over the vastness of the desert.

But no one fared as poorly as the Sharafs, who lost all four birds. For the moment at least, tact prevailed, and no one else remarked on it. His father brooded nonetheless, especially as some of the falcons returned with a dozen houbara for the cook fire. To make sure Sheikh Rashid’s guests had plenty to eat, the cook had also bargained with a passing herdsman for a pair of goats. The meal was outstanding after the long and tiring day, and Sharaf began to hope that the evening might pass without further humiliation.

Then the coffee was brewed, the smoking pipes came out, and tongues began to loosen. The fireside circle enjoyed much hearty laughter, and increasingly the levity came at his father’s expense. Sharaf wasn’t sure what was more horrifying—having his father be the butt of everyone’s jokes or watching the man’s anger build to a combustible level behind a stoical mask of gathering scorn. Among the boys, only Daoud managed to subdue his laughter, a display of solidarity that won Sharaf’s loyalty forever.

Events reached a climax when one of the men unwisely asked, “What will you hunt with tomorrow, Mahmoud Sharaf, your son? Will you fling him into the sky on a string?”

His father stood amid the fresh gale of laughter. Sharaf braced for the worst.

“Actually, I will not hunt at all tomorrow. My plan is to leave this party altogether at first light, as soon as prayers are over. Even if it means I have to walk every step of the way, with no coffee and no breakfast.”

The declaration was a colossal insult to the hospitality of their royal host. Some of the men gasped. The rest were silent, and many looked away. No one dared glance at Sheikh Rashid, but everyone was waiting for his reaction.

The sheikh did not lash out. He did not even rise from his seat. He instead handled the situation as only as a natural leader of many peoples and tribes could have managed. Sharaf couldn’t recall Rashid’s exact words, only that he began by making an offhand remark that made light of the entire proceeding. It signaled that he was not offended, and that he was willing to dismiss the intemperate outburst as a harmless release of steam.

This still left hanging the question of what his father would do the following morning. Would he stand around, birdless and humiliated? Or would he stalk away in a huff, as threatened? Sheikh Rashid solved that problem, too.

“You know,” he said, “my driver came out here tonight, as I always require, to bring me the daily news from the city.” Indeed, everyone straggling back from the hunt had noticed his vintage car parked by the tents.

“Well, as it happens, I am told that prices in the souk have begun to rise quite a bit in our absence. It has made me feel very guilty on behalf of the two merchants in our party. For that reason, I am begging them both to accept an offer of transportation in my car back to the city in the morning, so that they may safely attend to their business interests without missing out on the bountiful opportunity of the moment.”

It not only gave Sharaf’s father a graceful way out, it softened the landing by including a second man among the departures, a noted tea merchant. Sharaf remembered that Daoud nodded to him from across the campfire, as if to say, yes, this is how a great man should operate, not in vengeance but in reconciliation.

From the floor in the back of the Camry, Sam Keller spoke up after a long silence. His voice came up through the driver’s seat like that of a hidden radio, which only added to the sense that the fellow had been reading Sharaf’s mind:

“How did you get to know Daoud?”

Sharaf, momentarily startled, said nothing at first. He saw by the dashboard clock that nearly half an hour had passed.

“From an old hunting party,” he said at last. “Our encampment was not very far from where the body was found. It was long ago.”

A pause, several beats.

“A hunting party?” Keller prompted.

“With falcons. It is a complicated story.”

Sharaf’s cheeks burned with embarrassment at the mere thought of telling it to Keller. He had felt similarly embarrassed during the long ride back to town in Sheikh Rashid’s car. The lone benefit of the hunting trip was that he saw Daoud several more times that year, when the boy accompanied his father to town to sell firewood.

They remained friends, and when Sharaf became a policeman he stayed in touch by relaying advance warnings of any coming decrees or edicts that might affect life in the hinterlands. Daoud reciprocated with news of interest to a detective, just as he had done that morning. If the body had been the victim of some tribal dispute or Bedouin feud, Sharaf doubted Daoud ever would have called. But a foreign victim had clearly been the result of some bad business in the city.

Traffic was picking up. As they neared the huge ten-lane beltway on the outskirts of the city, the desert highway widened to four lanes, then six. It was then that Sharaf came up with the solution to their predicament.

“I have decided your destination,” he announced. “You will stay at my house. Under the circumstances, it is the only practical choice. But I must ask you to remain out of sight until we have reached it.”

“Your house?” Keller’s tone was uncertain.

“I can assure your complete comfort there. I have a family. And it will only be temporary. Perhaps only a single night.”

“And after that?”

“We will figure something out.”

Keller’s silence told him the American wasn’t sold on the idea. Sharaf wasn’t either. Amina certainly wouldn’t be. Only Laleh would like it, if only because she would have someone roughly her own age to talk to. Not that Sharaf would let that happen. In fact, the whole idea of it almost made him change his mind. But there was no alternative, short of driving Keller back out into the desert to hide him among the Bedouin.

He continued driving in contemplative silence until they ran into the usual nightmarish traffic. Finally, with a weary sigh, Sharaf turned in at the open gate to the family compound and coasted into the shaded carport.

“Okay,” he said, setting the hand brake. “I suppose it is safe to issue the all clear.”

Before Sam could answer, Sharaf looked in his rearview mirror and reacted immediately.

“Shit!” he said. “Exactly what I didn’t need.”

“What?” Keller asked, as he struggled to sit up. “The police?” If so, he was doomed.

“Worse,” Sharaf said. “My son Salim. And it’s obvious that he wants something.”