Layover in Dubai

27

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.

Basma: Is this Lieutenant Assad, of vice investigations?

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.

Assad: Then you should come down to CID, or contact our bureau of—

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: Hello?

Assad: Fifty, you say? You know the exact number and location?

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

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

Basma (timidly): Are you … still there?

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.

Assad: But I do know of places where we can meet. Safe locations where—

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.

Assad: Tonight? But that is so late. If these girls are arriving today, then why—

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

Assad: Wait, now. Just wait. Why can’t you tell me now, or sometime sooner?

Basma: I am frightened. I am not safe. How do I know I can trust you? Especially if only you and I are meeting?

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: What others? Other policemen?

Assad: Better than that. Members of a … a special task force which … which only handles these sorts of cases. So you see? Already I have told you a very big secret. Already I am having to trust you before you must trust me. You will be in the very best hands. But can’t we meet a little sooner?

Basma: Seven o’clock.

Assad: Very well. Seven. But you must do one thing for me so that I will know I can trust you. Because now I am the one in danger. So if you cannot tell me the location until half an hour before our meeting, then I must ask that we arrive at the same time, both of us entering together, right at seven. That way I will know this is not some sort of ambush, or some trick you are playing on the police. Understood?

Basma: I don’t know.

The girl sounded flustered, as if she hadn’t counted on this twist. Nanette wondered if she had been trying to consult with someone else in the room with her.

Assad: This is how it must be done, Basma. Understand? Seven o’clock at your location, that is fine, I agree. But no one arriving a second earlier, so that we will both be able to feel secure. Okay?

Basma: I guess.

Assad: You guess?

Basma: Okay.

Assad: Very good, then. I will speak with you again at six thirty. Correct?

Basma: Correct.

Assad: At this number?

Basma: Yes.

Assad: I will be waiting. And do not worry. You will be in safe hands from now on. I give you my personal assurance as an officer of the law.

Basma: Thank you.

Assad: Of course.

“Don’t you find it suspicious that she phoned you?” Nanette asked.

“If she had requested me by name, yes. But I checked afterward with the switchboard. All she asked for was the man in charge of vice, so they connected her to me. And now she will be playing right into our hands.”

“You’re the one that’s being played, Assad, don’t you see? That’s why she didn’t tell you the meeting place. Waiting until the last minute is part of the setup.”

He waved a hand dismissively.

“She’s scared. She’s only being careful, just as you’d expect.”

“Well, I’m not going to your damn meeting, I can tell you that.”

“I arranged that for you! You said it was what you wanted!”

“Only on my terms, not hers. Set foot in the door of whatever place she chooses and we’ll be history, all of us.”

“You are being unreasonable, a silly and stubborn woman who only wants things her way!”

“I am being prudent, Assad, but don’t fret. Not yet. You can still take charge of this situation, you know, in a way that will please everyone and will still take her off the board.”

Assad snorted. He seemed in no mood to listen further. But at this point Nanette crossed her legs and turned slightly in her chair, offering a view in profile that she knew Assad liked best, for the tightness of her blouse and the way her long skirt hugged her hips, and, never to be discounted, for its sidelong view of the fullness of her auburn hair.

It instantly made him receptive enough to at least hear out her idea, which, with Liffey’s persuasive assistance, he eventually accepted as their plan of action.

And now, here she was, down to her finishing touches of eyeliner, mascara, and lipstick. In an hour they would set things in motion, and then she would convince the others to follow her remaining plans to the letter.

Would women be hurt as a result? She loathed how that question kept popping up in her mind, because the answer, of course, was yes. But women were always hurt, weren’t they? Especially the ones without the brains or the guts to fend for themselves. Besides, what would really be more hurtful to a bunch of starving young rustics in Iraq—leaving them mired in the turmoil of war or removing them to the relative safety of steady hours and a steady income, even if they earned it on their backs? To her the answer was obvious. At least in Dubai they might have a future, a buyout, even advancement.

She stood, popping her lips and appraising herself in the mirror from several angles. She saw competence, seduction, a hint of menace, and even a touch of Yankee common sense. A woman most any man would believe he could rely on, even as he angled for a quick fuck.

Bring them on. Nanette Weaver was ready.