Layover in Dubai

21

“So that’s why you were soaking my clothes in a tub,” Sam said, after they dropped Laleh off. “And I’m guessing the tub is filled with, what, salt water?”

“Very good. But how did you know about the tub?”

“I saw it when Assad’s men came for me. I was out back looking for my wallet and spotted it through the window of the shed. But won’t you also need a body?”

“Mansour has one. It was found this morning. Some poor drunken unidentified tourist who fell off an abra into the creek five days ago. He was apparently traveling alone, with no friends and no next of kin. And now, as far as the government of Dubai is concerned, he is Sam Keller. I saw an item about him in the paper the first morning you were at our house. His body was still missing then. Witnesses had seen him slip into the water, but no one knew him and no one had come forward to report him missing. That’s when I took your clothes, pulled out the tub, and phoned Mansour.”

“And he agreed?”

“Spending a year together dodging sharks and the Indian coast guard tends to make you allies for life, just as with Ali. I knew Mansour would have jurisdiction whenever the creek finally decided to give back that poor fellow’s body.”

Sam shook his head, amazed by the audacity.

“It is called wasta, Mr. Keller, and it is how we do things here. I suppose to you it looks like corruption. To us it is a marketplace of favors and connections. Are things really so different in your world?”

“It’s just that, well, it sounds like something your father might have dreamed up. No disrespect intended.”

“None taken. I am quite aware of my inborn tendency for deviousness. That is why I am so committed to employing it for the greater good.”

“I’m not complaining. So what will they do, dress the body in my clothes?”

“I am sure it is too bloated and nibbled for that.” Sam winced. “Mansour’s men will throw away the real clothes and put yours in the property bag, along with your soggy passport and wallet.”

“What about dental records?”

“That will not be a concern until the American consulate ships the body home, which won’t happen for days, maybe weeks.”

“Hal Liffey will be the first one to see the paperwork. He and Nanette will probably have a drink to celebrate.”

“You are the one who should celebrate. No more looking over your shoulder for a Russian with a Makarov. Which is more than I can say for the poor man we’re about to visit. Rajpal Patel, the doorman from the Palace Hotel. He is hiding in Deira, on the far side of the creek.”

“Then shouldn’t we be heading south, to cross the bridge?”

Sharaf shook his head.

“By now Lieutenant Assad’s men may be looking for this car as well. We’ll park in the old quarter of Bastakiya, and make the crossing by abra.”

“Just like the dead tourist.”

“Only with better results, I hope.”

The waterfront in Bastakiya, the oldest part of the city, swarmed with activity, making it the perfect place to blend in with the crowd. Abras came and went from the docks like a procession of airport taxis, jostling to and fro in the cloudy green chop as their big diesel engines popped and grumbled like Harleys. They were low-slung, narrow craft, built of thick wooden beams the size and color of railroad ties. Passengers sat on a two-sided bench that ran down the spine of the open deck, facing outward, ten to a side. You paid the mate a dirham and stepped aboard the rocking deck. As soon as every seat was filled, the skipper revved the engine in a billow of blue smoke and pulled away, bumping the scuffed hulls of other abras until he reached open water.

Sam made a move to hop aboard the newest arrival, but Sharaf put out a hand.

“I am looking for someone,” he said. “Patience.”

Three boats later, Sharaf muttered, “Okay,” and they climbed aboard. This boat didn’t look any different from the others, but the skipper nodded toward Sharaf as they eased into the channel. Glancing around him, Sam realized the obvious advantage of this form of transport. You got a good long look at every fellow passenger, meaning no one could follow without being noticed. It was clear that no Russians were aboard.

The abra headed downstream with the incoming tide, taking them alongside the bigger dhows that still carried spices and textiles across the gulf from Iran. They, too, had timbered hulls, with jutting bowsprits and flush transoms that lent a piratical air. Despite the new high-rises lining much of the opposite shore, it wasn’t hard to imagine how the creek must have looked when Sharaf was a boy, barefoot and wiry. These waters ran straight from his heart, a key to everything about him, and Sam watched the man closely as they made the crossing.

When they reached the busy wharf in Deira, Sharaf again held out his arm in abeyance as the other passengers stepped ashore. The skipper nodded, and steered the abra back into the current. A few minutes later they pulled alongside a separate wharf that wasn’t part of the usual taxi service.

“Thank you, my friend,” Sharaf said as he and Sam climbed ashore. The captain merely revved his engine in reply, and headed upstream for a new load of return passengers.

“More wasta?” Sam asked.

“I have known his family since I was a child. He knows that in my work I prefer privacy.”

“What does he get in return?”

“Please, Mr. Keller. You cannot be privy to all my secrets.”

The moment they began walking, Sharaf stopped suddenly and grabbed Sam. He swayed for an instant like a stout palm in a stiff breeze.

“You all right?”

“A little dizzy. A little nauseous. I think it was the motion of the water, plus the lump on my head. I am fine now.”

“Maybe it would feel better with a little halothane. We’ll be just great if anyone comes after us.”

They moved at a deliberate pace to accommodate Sharaf’s wooziness, and found the address above a sagging jewelry store in a narrow cobbled alley, not far from Deira’s Gold Souk. Being with Sharaf helped ward off the vendors who had swarmed him during his shopping trip the week before. Or maybe being unshaven and ridiculously attired made him look too impoverished to bother with.

They climbed a dim, fetid stairwell to an unmarked steel door. Sam was reminded anew that he hadn’t shaved or showered in several days, which made it all the more amazing that Laleh had kissed him.

“Pay attention,” Sharaf said. “You look like you’re in one of those halothane dreams. This man may try to run when we announce ourselves. You need to be ready to move quickly.”

They knocked twice before a girl’s voice timidly called out in Hindi. Sharaf answered in kind. There was a click as she unlatched the lock. When she drew back the door, Sharaf jammed his foot in the opening and said in English, “We come as friends. We are here to see Rajpal Patel.”

There was an immediate flurry of activity from inside—raised voices, the sound of a toppling chair, the groan of a window sash being raised. Sharaf, dizzy or not, burst inside, knocking the girl onto her rump. Sam followed him to a back room, where Sharaf grabbed a man’s legs just as they were about to disappear over the windowsill. Two young boys ran to the fellow’s rescue and began pounding Sharaf on the back with tiny fists. Sam tried to peel them away, only to have a third one race forward to swat his ankles with a broomstick. The girl screamed, loud enough for neighbors to hear. But Sharaf was winning his game of tug-of-war, and within seconds the squirming Patel fell back through the window as everyone collapsed in a heap on the floor.

“Please!” Sharaf shouted. He closed his eyes and put a hand to his forehead, as if to stop it from spinning. “We are here as friends of Khalifa, the owner of your family’s shop. We are the enemy of your enemies, Mr. Patel!”

Patel, flat on his back, raised his hands in submission, which instantly calmed his corps of underage reinforcements.

“I was worried you were the police,” he said, eyeing Sharaf warily. He didn’t seem sure what to make of Sam. “Do you really know Khalifa?”

“I met him in the Central Jail. I was released only this morning, and with any luck they will release him as well, along with Nabil. Don’t worry, Khalifa has kept your secret from the authorities. But he gave me your address because he knows I can help.”

“And who are you?”

“Someone who is investigating the policemen. This man with me is a friend of Mr. Hatcher’s, the American who came to see you at the Palace Hotel. They were there together the other night, not long before Mr. Hatcher was killed.”

Patel’s eyes widened. He scrambled to his feet, as if ready to again bolt out the window.

“Mr. Hatcher was killed?”

“I am afraid so.”

This set off a round of eye rolling and a few curses in Hindi. Patel brusquely ordered the children to leave the room, and gestured toward a sagging bed while he stood by the open window. Sharaf and Sam reluctantly took a seat.

“How do I know you are not here to kill me?”

“If that were true, Mr. Patel, you would be dead by now.”

“Then who killed Mr. Hatcher?”

“A couple of Russians. And now those Russians are dead. We can only make the killings stop if you tell us why Mr. Hatcher paid you that night in the lobby.”

Patel looked again at Sam, and the light of recognition dawned in his eyes.

“I remember you now. You were by the front desk, watching us. He said not to worry, that you were harmless.”

“A little too harmless,” Sam answered, “or I could have helped him. He gave you money, then he wrote something down. What was it you told him?”

Patel bit his lip, as if debating how much to reveal.

“I told him what was coming on April fourteenth, this Monday.”

“We would like you to tell us as well,” Sharaf said. “Provided you still remember.”

“Of course, I remember. I had worked very hard to memorize it. I have a head for numbers, you see, so I am able to do such things.”

Patel then tilted his head as if searching his memory. His next words emerged in a monotone, like a student reciting important dates in history.

“Payload of fifty, I-M-O, nine-zero-one-six-seven-four-two. Jebel Ali terminal two, gate six, lot seventeen, row four.”

The recitation complete, Patel looked back at their faces.

“That is all. That is what I told him.”

“Of course,” Sharaf said. “An IMO number. They’re assigned to container ships.”

“And this one’s arriving Monday at Jebel Ali,” Sam said, “with a payload of fifty.”

Finally, Charlie’s scribbled numbers and letters made perfect sense. No code at all. Just a lot of shipping information in abbreviated form.

“But fifty what?” Sam asked. “Tons? Kilos? Weapons?”

“Women,” Sharaf said. “For the flesh trade. Their new pipeline, now that the airport’s under a crackdown.”

“In ship containers?”

“Someone smuggled in a few boys that way for use as camel jockeys last year, back when the government was shutting down that trade. Maybe that’s where they got the idea. The other numbers must be where the containers will be stored after unloading. In some freight lot at terminal two.”

Sharaf turned back toward Patel.

“Thank you, Mr. Patel. But where did that information come from?”

“From the recording.”

“What kind of recording?”

“The tape. Of those people who met in the Kasbar a month ago. I can explain, if you wish.”

“Oh, yes. We wish.”

So Patel told them all he could remember, which was considerable. His account dated back to a slow evening at the Kasbar three months earlier, when Charlie Hatcher had first appeared at the roped-off entrance. He had approached Patel with a conspiratorial grin and a folded hundred-dollar bill, and as Patel related the details Sam could almost hear his old colleague’s voice supplying the dialogue along the way, right down to the offhand language Charlie would have used to pitch his diabolical offer:

“Name’s Charlie Hatcher, old son. I’m with Pfluger Klaxon. Technically that allows me entry on our corporate membership, although I’m afraid you won’t find my name in your big red book. So this token of my appreciation will have to do instead, provided you’re free for a little conversation once I’ve settled in with a drink, yes?”

He handed over the bill. Patel pocketed the money and returned the smile.

“Of course, sir. As long as no one is needing my services for a few moments.”

“Absolutely, old son. Wouldn’t want to jeopardize your career in hospitality management.”

By the time Patel slid into the booth, Charlie was ready with a proposition.

“First off, I have some photos for you.”

He laid a sheet of paper faceup on the table with five Photostat images. Three were in color—one of a man with an American flag in the background, one of a woman with striking auburn hair, attractive in a stern sort of way, and one of a rather beefy man on a busy sidewalk. The other two, in black and white, seemed to have been copied from newspaper photos. One was captioned in Arabic, the other in the Cyrillic characters of Russian. Both were men, and one was a cop. No names had been typed in for any of the five.

“If it’s not too much trouble, I’d like for you to keep an eye out for these people, and make a note of whenever one of them visits. What time, how many in their party, plus the name used to make the reservation. You’d be generously compensated, of course. In addition, next time you get a spare moment I’d appreciate it if you could look back through your reservation book for, oh, let’s say six months, and let me know of any previous appointments made under the same name. Especially if that name matches one of these.”

Charlie slid forward an index card. Five names were typed in a neat column.

Patel frowned and fidgeted. Customers occasionally asked for his help in acquiring the temporary services of women, and he was always ready with a few leads. In one or two lucky instances he had later received a small percentage from the beneficiary. But this request seemed more serious, and much riskier.

“I am very sorry, sir, but the privacy interests of our guests require that—”

“Please, old son. Hear me out. I’d very, very much like to make this arrangement work to your advantage.” Charlie slipped a second hundred-dollar bill onto the table. “And this would only be the beginning—let’s say, one-tenth of your total compensation package? So consider this a down payment on your loyalty. Besides, one of these people is even a coworker of mine. All you’re really providing is a little enhanced corporate security. If you prefer, just think of yourself as a Pfluger Klaxon consultant.”

Patel’s frown deepened. He rubbed his palms on his knees and glanced toward the entrance to make sure no one was awaiting entry. Then he leaned across the table and lowered his voice.

“I see your point, sir. Perhaps it would not be such a serious breach of our policies if I was to, as you say, participate as a consultant.”

“That’s the spirit. One more item, then, and we’re done.”

Charlie produced the transaction’s pièce de résistance from a briefcase. It was a small blue ceramic bowl, virtually identical to the ones the Kasbar’s waitresses always brought to the table for their patrons, except Charlie’s wasn’t filled with the requisite helping of pistachios and smoked almonds. Moving as deftly as a magician, Charlie turned the bowl upside down just long enough to reveal a small silver item implanted in the bowl’s recessed bottom.

“Did you happen to see that, old son?”

“What was it?”

“Digital recorder. Smaller than an iPod, but easier to operate. Keep this bowl of ours in some safe and handy place until you need it. Your locker, for instance, where you change into that fine-looking uniform. You have a locker here, don’t you?”

“Yes. In the back. But—”

“Excellent. The next time any of these people walk in, all you have to do is retrieve this bowl, flip the switch, then slip a twenty to some waitress so she will deliver it to the table. Along with the usual refreshments, of course. Like so.” He set the bowl down with a solid thunk, then took an almond from their own bowl and popped it in his mouth. “That’s the real beauty of our arrangement, don’t you see? Only one part of it is dicey, and a waitress handles that for you.”

Patel knew by then that he was in over his head, but the idea of making a thousand dollars in only a few minutes of work had taken hold of his imagination. So he sighed and fretted, and again rubbed his hands on his knees. Then he nodded, as if to seal the deal, even though he never mustered enough courage to actually say yes.

“Very good. Of course, if the recorder comes back blank, your compensation will be adjusted accordingly. Results, old son. That’s what you’re being paid for, just as with any consultant. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Until next time, then? Say, a month or two, or maybe even longer, when, if you have everything waiting for me, I’ll pay you in full?”

“Yes, sir. A month or two. I will try to have your results.”

Charlie stood up from the table and departed the Kasbar, not to return until the night he showed up with Sam Keller at his side.

“Those photos,” Sharaf said, “and this list. Did you keep them?”

Patel nodded.

He reached into his pocket. They were creased and folded like old money. Sharaf took the page and the card and smoothed them out in his lap while Sam leaned closer. The color photos of Nanette Weaver and Hal Liffey seemed to have been printed straight from the Internet, from the State Department and Pfluger Klaxon Web sites. The color shot of Iranian mobster Mohsen Hedayat was clear enough, but looked as if it had been taken with a cell phone, on the sidewalk outside the Iranian Club, a thriving social club in the Oud Metha area of Dubai. The photos of Anatoly Rybakov and Lieutenant Hamad Assad had been copied from newspapers. All five of their names were typed on the crumpled index card.

Sam could tell Sharaf was trying to rein in his excitement.

“These people,” Sharaf said, as calmly as if he were asking about Patel’s family, “I take it that they all met at some point later, and you were able to tape them?”

Patel shook his head.

“No. Just one.”

“One? How can only one person hold a meeting?”

Patel shrugged, as if that wasn’t his concern.

“There were three people, but only one was from those pictures. His name was on the list. Mr. Hal Liffey.”

“Who were the other two?”

Patel shrugged again.

“Mr. Liffey did not include their names with his reservation. All that was recorded in the book was that he had requested a table for three.”

“So it might have been two of the others, then, but you’re just not sure?”

“No. I am sure. It was not the woman, and it was not any of the other three.”

“But you taped them anyway?”

“Just as Mr. Hatcher said, except I had to give the waitress a fifty. She said those people were too scary, especially the Russian.”

“One of them was a Russian?”

“And one was Persian. The waitress said the Russian was Mafia, but she says that anytime a rich Russian comes here. But it made her scared. That is why I had to pay her a fifty, and when I began to think about it later I was scared, too. So I took the recorder home. I did not want to leave it anywhere around the hotel where it might be found, especially not in my locker. My only worry was what I would do when Mr. Hatcher came. He would expect delivery, and I knew I would not be paid unless he could be sure I had results.”

“So that’s why you memorized the information for April fourteenth, to assure him you had the goods?”

Patel nodded again.

“Why that part?”

“On the tape, it is the only time they are speaking English. The rest of the time they are only speaking Russian. I don’t speak Russian.”

“Is that why he paid you in the lobby, but took nothing in return?”

“Yes. Five hundred dollars. Half the total. At the moment I mentioned April fourteenth, he seemed very happy. He said he would pay me the rest when I gave him the recorder.”

“No wonder he was short on cash when we got to the York,” Sam said. “But he had already mentioned the date earlier that night, at the Alpine bar. That’s when he called it the day of reckoning.”

“So he knew it was important, but perhaps not why. Or not exactly why,” Sharaf said. “This recording, sir, when did you deliver it?”

Patel shook his head.

“I took it to work with me the next afternoon. Mr. Hatcher was supposed to come pick it up. But when I reached my locker, the bouncer from the earlier shift told me a policeman was waiting for me at the rope. When I looked through the door I saw he was one of the men from the photos.”

“Lieutenant Assad?” Sharaf said.

“Yes. I knew I was in trouble, so I left by the back. There was a police van with four more men in the main drive, so I crossed the hotel grounds to the beach and walked a mile along the water before cutting back to a bus stop on the main road. When I got home my family said the police had been there as well. That is when I came here, with Khalifa’s help.”

“Did you bring the recorder with you?”

Patel eyed them carefully. Sam held his breath.

“It is hidden,” Patel said. “It is what cost me my job. And if you want it, you must pay the other five hundred dollars that was promised.”

Patel folded his arms to indicate that his offer was final. Sharaf glanced at Sam.

“I’ve got a few hundred dirhams,” Sam said, “but that’s about it.”

“Nonsense. We’re not paying this little crook.”

Sharaf stood suddenly, then caught himself, swaying as he had before, which only served to make him angrier. Steadying himself, he pointed a finger at Patel.

“Here is how it will work,” he said evenly. Patel sat impassively, arms folded. “You will bring us the tape, here and now. In exchange, I will not tell Lieutenant Assad where you’ve gone. That is even more valuable than five hundred dollars, don’t you think?”

Patel unlocked his arms and lashed out.

“But you promised Khalifa!”

“Yes. But I, too, am a policeman.” Sharaf flashed his ID and flipped open his cell phone. “And with a single call, sir, I can summon an entire squadron to this doorstep within five minutes. So you will retrieve the recorder or else I will phone my colleagues. It is your choice.”

Sharaf began punching in numbers, each beep sounding like a tiny alarm bell.

“Stop!” Patel rose from his chair. “All right, you will have it, then! I will get it for you now!”

“We will accompany you.”

Patel flung up his hands in exasperation.

“As you wish, jackals!”

It was in the next room, stored behind a baseboard panel, which Patel loosened with a table knife. He sulkily handed it over.

Sharaf studied the buttons a moment, then pressed play. There was a rustling sound, then the clicking of footsteps, followed by a jarring thump as a woman’s voice said in English, “Some refreshments for you. And your drinks, of course.”

There were three light thunks on the table. Ice clinked in a glass as someone took a thirsty first sip.

“Thank you,” a man said in English.

“Hal Liffey,” Sam said. The mere sound of his voice made him angry.

The footsteps of the waitress receded, and Liffey got down to business.

“Two items, gentlemen. And I’d appreciate if both were reported promptly and precisely to your superiors. The first and most important is that our corporate sponsor informs me that the details are complete for the first major transaction, set for four-fourteen. No more dry runs, this one’s for real. Ready for the particulars?”

There was a pause, followed by a muffled sound of movement and a few stray beeps.

“I don’t believe it,” Sam said. “They’re getting out their BlackBerrys.”

Liffey spoke clearly and slowly enough for everyone to log the details. He said exactly what Patel had repeated in his recitation:

“Payload of fifty, I-M-O, nine-zero-one-six-seven-four-two. Jebel Ali terminal two, gate six, lot seventeen, row four. Should I repeat that?”

Two muffled voices answered, “No,” then Liffey spoke again.

“More people are coming into the bar. British, I think. Perhaps we should conduct the remainder of our business in Russian. Partly, of course, in deference to the man who helped bring us together. A toast, then, to the Tsar.”

There was a clink of glasses. The next voice was an outburst of Russian from one of the others. Sharaf checked his watch, switched off the recorder, and popped it into his pants pocket.

“We will listen to the rest later, when I have time to translate. For now we’re due at the Beacon of Light, where, if my guess is correct, we’ll find out more about their payload.”

“Fifty women,” Sam said, “and they’ll be arriving like livestock in two days. We better move fast.”