Layover in Dubai

5

Sharaf slept fitfully until he was awakened by shouting from the kitchen—his wife and daughter, arguing yet again about Laleh’s choice of clothes. Amina could not be worn down in these wars of attrition, a lesson that Laleh had yet to learn.

He heard Laleh retreat to her room. A door slammed, followed by the screech and slide of clothes hangers being moved with great fury along the bar of her closet. A moment later footsteps clomped back down the hallway. She must have passed inspection, because the next sound was that of her BMW backing out of the drive.

Good for Amina. Sharaf had seen some of the predatory males out in Media City. Lean and curious, stoked on caffeine or worse. Hungry for sensation, the very nature of their business. They would pursue Laleh the instant she offered the slightest hint of an invitation, such as a pair of exposed calves, or a plunging neckline. There were too many lonely men here in Dubai, hunting on their own. It was why you saw so many prostitutes, even in some of the better neighborhoods. After dark, a man in Western attire stood an even chance of being propositioned on his way to buy a quart of milk.

Not that Laleh was supposed to be showing any of herself outside the home. No matter what outfit she chose, she was supposed to cover everything with a black abaya, as almost every Emirati woman did when she was out in public. And that was indeed how Laleh always left the house, covered in black from head to toe.

Why, then, all the arguments over hemlines, necklines, and bare shoulders? Because, frankly, the Sharafs didn’t trust their daughter not to throw off her abaya once she reached the office. Not that they ever actually accused her of this. That would have been too close to admitting its possibility, and they preferred to ignore the thought altogether. Better, instead, to fight over the garments themselves, as if the abaya was a moot point.

Sharaf got out of bed. He hadn’t bothered to undress after returning from the York, so his uniform looked worse than usual. No time for Amina to iron it if he was going to make it to work on time, and he didn’t want to arouse suspicion by arriving late.

Amina had gone by the time he reached the kitchen. She’d left a note: “I’ll be at the nail salon at Mercato.”

Mercato was her favorite little mall, down on Jumeirah Road. Sharaf could take it or leave it. Too cute by his standards, done up to resemble a Venetian piazza. Fairly tasteful as such things went, and the air-conditioning was top-notch. But the mall’s compact size was stifling. Sharaf preferred the wide-open mega-spaces with four or even five levels. Mazelike floor plans where you could roam for miles at a time. In the summer it was the only sensible way to take a stroll, although you might have to endure an hour of traffic for the privilege.

Halfway to the office he realized he’d forgotten his notes from the night before. A few blocks after turning around he was stalled in a tie-up that stretched through most of Jumeirah. By the time he reached the house, Laleh’s BMW was back in the driveway. Maybe she, too, had forgotten something.

She stepped out of the house as he pulled up the drive, and she stopped immediately, mouth open, caught in the act. Laleh had again changed clothes, and, worst of all, her abaya was still bunched in her right hand. She stood for all the world to see in a knee-length skirt of lustrous black silk, cinched tightly at the waist by a patent leather belt. The top button was undone on a crisp burgundy blouse. Black nylons shone in the sunlight. Her dark brown hair was shaken loose to her shoulders, with nothing at all to cover it.

Sharaf’s voice caught in his throat as he stepped from the Camry. Before he could summon the energy to vent his outrage it occurred to him how beautiful and vulnerable she was, a mature young woman with a mind of her own, working every day among people her family scarcely knew.

By now she had recovered from her embarrassment and was moving briskly toward the BMW, keys out of her purse. She was hastily putting the abaya on, throwing it atop her shoulders and then shimmying as she walked. It dropped like a silk curtain, and she paused to poke her arms into the sleeves, a striptease in reverse. Sharaf stood by the Camry’s open door, dumbfounded but enraged.

“Young lady!”

“I’ve been through this already with Mom. This outfit is a compromise. What she wanted me to wear was simply ridiculous. I couldn’t have taken myself seriously.”

“It didn’t look like much of a compromise.” His voice rose. “Especially when it wasn’t covered at all!”

“Sorry, Father, but I’m late.” Her face was sullen, unrepentant.

“We’ll discuss it this evening. Be home by ten!”

“I’m always home by ten!”

He was about to admonish her disrespectful tone when his cell phone rang. A glance told him it was the Minister, and by the time he looked up again, Laleh was backing down the drive, zooming past his Camry in a dazzle of style and polish. Music throbbed through the rolled-up windows, radiating with her anger.

So what was he supposed to do now? Chase her halfway up Sheikh Zayed Road with all the other commuters? He leaned wearily on the Camry’s door frame and watched until the BMW was out of sight. In her wake: a silent neighborhood of empty sidewalks and pale brown villas, curtains closed.

The phone rang again.

“Sharaf.”

“The York. You went?”

“Of course.”

“Well, what do you think? Is it a trap, or is it real?”

“Why can’t it be both? The important thing is that it’s an opening.”

Sharaf briefly outlined what he intended to do next.

“No,” the Minister said. “Too risky.”

“Of course it’s risky. You hired me for results. You also told me to use unorthodox methods, keep everything off the books, and look for the first possible opening. This is our opening.”

“How can you be sure?”

“He was killed by the Russians, for one thing.”

“Assad has a suspect?”

“Of course not. And unless he arrests some patsy just to clear the case he never will. But everything fits: the location, two Slavic thugs, and the weapon, a Makarov semiautomatic.”

“There is already a ballistics report?”

“I saw a shell casing.”

“So you’re guessing.”

“An educated guess. Assad won’t let me near the paperwork anytime soon, so that’s the best I can do for now.”

“If you haven’t seen the report, then how do you know about the thugs?”

“The forensics team. They gossip like old women at a wedding.”

“So even that’s secondhand. Not good enough, not with these people.”

“What people? The Russians? Or are you referring to Pfluger Klaxon, the victim’s employer?”

“Merciful God, is that true?”

“He worked in quality control, meaning he was a natural troubleshooter. Or troublemaker; judging from what happened to him.”

“All the more reason to avoid this one, even though that jackal Assad is involved.”

“Pardon me, sir, but, as my daughter likes to say in English, ‘Get real.’ Because if anything out of the ordinary is involved, the mere proximity of a Pfluger Klaxon employee ensures that certain higherups will want to help clean up the mess. It’s the kind of name that always draws the big boys out of the shadows. The very people you’re interested in.”

Your ministerial rivals, he could have added, but didn’t.

For a moment the Minister said nothing. Sharaf imagined him cringing as he considered the various friends and associates he might alienate if things went wrong. Sharaf had seen it before—bosses who talked big about cleaning house, then blanched as the day of reckoning drew near. Fine by him. If the Minister backed out, so would Sharaf. But, somewhat to his surprise, Sharaf found himself hoping for the opposite. Having poked a toe in the water, he was now itching to make the dive. A last plunge for old times’ sake. Or maybe he just relished the challenge.

The Minister sighed.

“Okay, then. But work it from our side only. And for the moment leave the Americans alone.”

“You’re already tying one hand behind my back.”

“Those are my rules. If you’re as good as everyone says, it shouldn’t prevent you from achieving success.”

Another reason Sharaf preferred to be underestimated. It kept expectations lower.

“Don’t expect a miracle,” he said.

And don’t expect me to play by your rules, he thought after hanging up. Because the first thing he needed to do was to come up with some excuse for contacting the second American, rules be damned. Like father, like daughter, he supposed. No wonder Laleh was so defiant. Sharaf restarted the Camry and crept back into the maelstrom.