Layover in Dubai

6

Someone was in Charlie’s room.

You could hear the ruckus next door even through the Shangri-La’s fortified walls—drawers opening, closets slamming, loud voices issuing orders. In English, no less.

Sam sat up in bed, wondering what the hell was happening. He must have finally dropped off to sleep at sunrise, not long after the first call to prayer. Now it was bright enough to be midday.

He had slept poorly. Charlie’s face kept bobbing up in his dreams—laughing in one moment, dead in the next, eyes fixed and vacant, rigid skin gone fish-belly white. As Sam stumbled out of bed he wondered how old Charlie’s kids were, what Charlie’s wife would say, what he would tell her. He supposed he would face them all at the funeral, a convicted man before a firing squad. Deservedly so.

The banging from next door grew louder. Sam shrugged on a T-shirt and pulled up his trousers from a wrinkled pile at the foot of the bed. Then he wandered barefoot into the hallway, where an American in khakis and a navy polo looked up from a clipboard.

“You must be the friend. Sam Keller?”

“Who are you?”

“Hal Liffey, U.S. consular section. I’m sorry for your loss. My condolences.”

Liffey extended a hand, but Sam was more interested in the doings next door, where there had just been a huge thud. Had they upended the mattress? The door was open, and Sam tried to move close enough for a look, but Liffey blocked his way.

“What’s going on in there?”

“Collecting his belongings. Sorry about the noise.”

“Sounds more like a search.”

“Well, they don’t want to miss anything. Standard procedure with an overseas death of a U.S. citizen. We collect the personal effects of the deceased and ship them home with the, uh, the body.”

“Shouldn’t the police be present?”

“They’ve been notified. They’re okay with it. If we find anything relevant, we’ll let them know, of course. We just figured it was in everybody’s best interest to move fast, especially after your office called.”

“Nanette Weaver?”

“She seems very efficient.”

“She’s due in at six. I’m meeting her at the airport.”

Sam checked his wrist for the time, but he had left his watch on the nightstand.

“It’s almost noon,” Liffey offered.

“I should get dressed.” He wondered vaguely why Lieutenant Assad hadn’t already stopped by.

“I’ll need you for a few minutes when we’re done, if you don’t mind. Some forms to sign, that kind of thing.”

“Sure. You haven’t spoken with a Lieutenant Assad this morning, have you?”

“No. I’ll knock for you when we’re done.”

Sam showered while the thuds continued. A curious business. He wondered if it was really routine. As he dressed he noticed Charlie’s black datebook on the nightstand next to his watch, out in plain view. He considered giving it to Liffey before Assad arrived, but he supposed that might also land him in trouble, or complicate the paperwork. Better to deliver it personally to Nanette. She’d know what to do. In the meantime he would hide it in a drawer, although his auditor’s curiosity demanded that he first glance inside.

There was little to see. Every page was blank except for the one tabbed with the letter “D,” where Charlie had written “Dubai” above a list of three names and phone numbers. The numbers were local. The first name was Rajpal Patel, the second was Tatiana Tereshkova, and the third one was merely Basma, a female Arabic name, but nothing more. None was familiar, and as far as Sam knew none worked for Pfluger Klaxon. There were no addresses, no job titles, and no other identifying information.

Below, in a sloppier hand, was “Monday, 4/14!” underlined twice, along with a two-line mishmash of letters and numbers: “50! IMO9016742, JA T2-G6, L17-R4.”

None of it made sense. Probably a bunch of abbreviations, some personal shorthand that only Charlie could decipher. Sam remembered their conversation at the Alpine bar, and Charlie’s promise of big doings on Monday the 14th. It was now Sunday the 6th. Charlie would never make it to his avowed day of reckoning, and his black book offered few clues as to what might have been in the works. Was this all or part of what Charlie had scribbled with such urgency during his rendezvous at the Palace Hotel?

Sam flipped through the rest of the book. Nothing. Maybe Charlie had been talking big only to toy with him, trying to goad him into reporting something back to Nanette.

A knock at the door made him flinch. He slid the datebook into a drawer.

“It’s Liffey. We’re done out here, so whenever you’re ready.”

Sam opened the door to find Liffey with forms in hand, pen at the ready. Whoever had been helping was gone, and the door to Charlie’s room was shut.

Sam ordered a room service breakfast, then spent most of the next few hours pacing, first in his room and then in the lobby, while nervously wondering if and when Assad would make good on his threatened visit. At 3:30 he tried calming himself with a swim in the hotel pool, but it felt wrong to be among squealing children and luxuriating couples, people without a single care, so he returned to his room.

Shortly after 4:00 his curiosity about matters of consular policy got the best of him, so he fired up his laptop and poked around a State Department Web site long enough to discover that when an American died abroad, it was indeed a consular duty to “take possession of personal effects, such as: convertible assets, jewelry, apparel, and personal documents and papers.” Although this was supposed to occur only “if the deceased has no legal representative in the country where the death occurred.” Presumably Nanette had set the process in motion.

He had another hour to kill before going to the airport, so he sat on the end of the bed watching CNN International. There was nothing about a murdered American businessman in Dubai.

By 6 p.m. he was waiting outside the arrivals gate next to the limo drivers holding signs with their clients’ names. Nanette spotted him right away as she burst through the door from customs, and she nodded in recognition. For someone who had just flown through an entire night from halfway around the world, she was crackling with energy. She rolled an overnight bag with a laptop strapped smartly to the top. Not a wrinkle on her suit, which featured a skirt cut well below the knee. She was dressed for the locals, although her lipstick and makeup were flawless. So was her hair. She might have just hopped out of a cab after a four-block ride through Manhattan. It was mildly unnerving.

To his relief, she smiled in greeting.

“We took the corporate jet,” she said, as if to explain her polished appearance.

“We?”

“My assistant is back there somewhere. Stanley Woodard. He’s along to help pick up the pieces.”

“Am I one of the pieces?”

Sam hadn’t meant to say anything so self-pitying. He realized he was still off balance from jet lag and a lack of sleep.

“I guess that depends on what happened after we talked. How’d it go with the police?”

He gave her a quick rundown, ending with Lieutenant Assad’s threats.

“I doubt the lieutenant will be a problem. I phoned him while we were on the taxiway. Have the consular people been in touch?”

“They came by to clear out Charlie’s room. It was kind of weird.”

“It’s routine. In fact, they’re our first order of business. They’re staying open after hours on our behalf, so we’ll go straight there if it’s all right with you.”

“Sure. I’ll hail a cab.”

“No need. There should be a car waiting.”

As if on cue, Stanley Woodard bustled through the doors with a cell phone tucked to his ear. He was younger than Sam, fresh out of college. He looked like he had slept in his clothes, and he seemed to be in a great hurry.

“Driver’s on the line,” he said. “Car’s out front.”

“Maybe you should follow in a taxi. Sam and I have some delicate business to discuss.”

Woodard looked crestfallen but didn’t protest. He pocketed the phone and nodded gamely at Sam. Nanette didn’t seem inclined to introduce them, so Sam nodded back. He wondered what “delicate business” she was referring to.

The black Mercedes limo, technically a stretch, was far shorter than its huge American counterparts, which made it seem modest by comparison. The interior nonetheless had the feel of a swank private chamber, and when Sam sank deeply into the black leather upholstery he again realized how exhausted he was. Nanette slid toward him from the other door, coming closer than he would have expected on such a roomy seat. With the windows up, her perfume was noticeable. It seemed like ages since their previous meeting back in Gary’s office. He wondered where he would have been right now if he had said no to her plan. Or had that really been an option?

She turned to face him from only a foot away. He noticed a small black dot in her left eye, against the green of her iris.

“So how are you holding up, Sam? It must have been terrible for you.”

“All right, I guess. I keep thinking of Charlie. I go back and forth over everything that happened, wishing I’d done things differently. I’m sorry. I really did drop the ball, like you said. Although I guess it’s Charlie’s family I should apologize to.”

“No, no, Sam. The whole thing is my fault. You’re an auditor, a good one. But you’re not a security operative, and I shouldn’t have expected you to be one. I was only trying to make it a little easier for Charlie. A little less awkward, if that makes sense. Obviously I miscalculated. And, not to speak poorly of the dead, but Charlie didn’t exactly help himself. He made his own bed, Sam.”

“But I—”

“No. Not another word. Stop blaming yourself.”

The car slowed, easing into what appeared to be a horrendous traffic jam. The driver gestured in exasperation toward a cordon of orange cones, where a backhoe was hefting a slab of broken pavement.

“They make new roundabout,” he complained. “For only two days I not come here, and already they make new roundabout.”

Without replying, Nanette reached forward to press a button. A smoked-glass window slid shut between them and the driver. Incredibly rude, but mildly thrilling. They were secluded in boudoir comfort. In Sam’s sleep-deprived mind, aching for solace, almost anything seemed possible.

“I hope you’ll have time for dinner later,” she said.

“Sure. Absolutely.”

He was too tongue-tied to say more.

To Sam’s surprise, the U.S. Consulate was a Dubai anomaly—plain and unremarkable. He had once seen it portrayed in a movie as a palatial spread of marble and glass, with a luxurious courtyard of bubbling fountains and towering palms. Instead, it was a dreary block of offices on the twenty-first floor of the Dubai World Trade Centre, which was itself an uninspiring slab of concrete at the east end of Sheikh Zayed Road. The ambassador, the round-the-clock U.S. Marine guards, and the bulk of the diplomatic workforce for the Emirates were all based at the big embassy over in Abu Dhabi.

A green military truck from the Dubai Police was parked outside the building’s ground-floor entrance, with a drowsy sentry at the wheel. Visitors had to pass through metal detectors in the downstairs lobby, and the elevator wouldn’t stop on the twenty-first floor unless you punched in a numeric code, which Nanette seemed to know by heart. Sam watched out of the corner of his eye, unable to prevent himself from registering the sequence. Part of the auditor’s curse, he supposed, forever filing away extraneous data, like a Web crawler that never slept. Stanley Woodard, whose taxi had fallen behind in traffic, barely made it aboard before the doors shut, and seemed none too pleased about it.

Hal Liffey welcomed them as the doors opened upstairs, except now he was dressed in a charcoal suit. To Sam’s surprise, Nanette greeted him like an old pal.

“Hal’s the commercial attaché,” she told Sam.

“We’ve met,” Liffey said, a little embarrassed.

“Is it always the commercial attaché’s job to retrieve the personal effects of the deceased?” Sam asked.

“It is when he’s the only person available. We’re just an outpost here, and are staffed accordingly.”

Liffey led them to a conference room where a gray-haired man and a slender young woman with a severe haircut waited at a long wood-grain table. Narrow windows offered a prime view of another tall building across the way. Its white sides were wrapped partially in a robe of brown marble. Perched atop it was a dimpled sphere that looked like a giant tan golf ball. With a good swing you could have swatted it up Dubai Creek, which shimmered beyond it on a dogleg left.

The gray-haired fellow at the head of the table stood. “Todd Mooney, consul general. I’m sorry for your loss.” He turned toward the woman with the bad haircut. “Maura Steele, my assistant. I take it you’ve met Hal. We’re here to do what we can to make everything go as smoothly as possible. We know this must be a trying time for you.”

He sounded like a funeral director. Maybe that was the recommended demeanor in the Foreign Service manual. Sam wondered if their duties also involved interceding with the local police. He wished he had brought along Charlie’s datebook. This would have been a good time and place to drop it off.

“Hal tells me he has taken possession of all personal effects of the deceased,” Mooney said. “And, Ms. Weaver, am I correct in assuming that next of kin have been notified?”

“That is correct.” Nanette offered a subdued smile.

“In that case, the next order of business is to obtain the death certificate from the UAE Ministry of Health. Then we’ll proceed with the official Foreign Service Report of Death. Maura here will assist with that.

“And now, although Ms. Weaver is no doubt familiar with these logistics, I am nonetheless required to brief you on the various local laws and customs with a bearing on the disposition of Mr. Hatcher’s remains, as well as the procedures for their subsequent shipment to the United States.”

He continued in a similarly bureaucratic vein for several minutes more, repeating the words “disposition of remains” far too often. Woodard took copious notes. Sam tuned out when Mooney began discussing local embalming practices and the shipment costs of a loaded coffin. Nanette had already done so. She had retreated to a rear corner with Liffey, where she was whispering intently while he nodded with his head down.

Woodard tapped Sam’s arm.

“He’s asking you a question.”

“Oh. Sorry. I’m a little out of it.” He felt ready for a nap, and oddly vulnerable. He wished someone would just say, “Look, why don’t you go on home and let us handle this?”

Instead, Mooney said, “I was just wondering if, once the death certificate is issued, you would be available to sign out the body from the refrigeration unit, in order to expedite transportation. Not that there’s any monetary urgency. Refrigerated storage is provided free of charge.”

“I, uh, don’t know. Shouldn’t there be an autopsy first?”

“That’s not our understanding. According to Ms. Weaver, the family hasn’t requested one.”

It would have been an appropriate time for Nanette to jump in. But she was still conferring with Liffey, and Mooney seemed unwilling to interrupt. Instead he turned back toward Sam with an air of mild exasperation.

“I also gather that the cause of death isn’t in dispute. I mean, well, you saw him, correct? Do you retain any doubts?”

“No. He was shot. That was pretty clear. But what about other factors?”

“Such as?”

“Well …” Sam fought hard to clear his mind, and he seized on a couple of stray thoughts that had occurred to him earlier. “Whether he’d been drugged in advance, for example. Or whether he’d engaged in any sexual activity before he was killed.”

Maura Steele frowned disapprovingly.

“How could that possibly be relevant,” she asked, “other than as a potential embarrassment to his family and colleagues?”

“Because if he didn’t have sex, it could mean he was there for something else, which could have had a bearing on his death. So I would think that at the very least—”

“Sam?”

It was Nanette, who was back at the table. She didn’t look or sound angry, or even disappointed. Her demeanor was closer to abiding, tolerant, as if she completely understood his concerns but nonetheless needed him to see things their way.

“It’s the police who counseled this course of action,” she said. “Apparently they’re convinced they know what transpired beforehand, and from what little I’ve heard I trust their judgment.”

“Okay. Good enough for me.” Even though it wasn’t. Or maybe he was just exhausted. Whatever the case, the weight of all his worries and what-ifs seemed to press him deeper into the chair. He resolved to say nothing further unless called upon.

The rest of the meeting passed in a blur. An hour later Nanette and he were again seated in the limo, this time with Woodard between them as they headed for the Shangri-La. The two new arrivals checked into their rooms while Sam went upstairs to crash. He drifted off to sleep before he could even remove his shoes. His cell phone woke him a half hour later. It was Nanette, offering to meet him in the lobby. She had reserved a table for dinner at Marrakech, one of the hotel’s restaurants—that is, if he was still interested. Still in a fog, he figured he had better say yes. It was now dark outside. He had been in Dubai for barely forty-eight hours, but it felt like weeks.

He splashed his face in the bathroom sink, shaved, and changed into a fresh shirt and trousers, all of which left him feeling a little more alert. He wondered if he should also change into fresh briefs. That made him realize that at some level he was treating the evening like a date, which was downright silly, not to mention unwise. Fortunately, Woodard would be along to dispel any such illusion.

He reached the lobby to find Nanette alone on a couch, drink in hand. She had changed into a skirt far more accommodating of expat tastes. With her legs crossed it rode several inches above her knees.

“Where’s Woodard?”

“Too busy. Consular paperwork, plus some other arrangements. I’m sorry that Mooney fellow ran on like that. I could have briefed you on pretty much all of that. He’s new here, so I suppose he felt like he had to impress us. How ’bout a drink? You look like you could use one.”

It was the same remark Charlie had made to start off their night on the town, and Sam was briefly disoriented, feeling as if Charlie might come bounding around the corner at any moment, raring to go.

“Are you all right, Sam?”

“Fine. Although maybe I should hold off any drinks until dinner.”

No sooner had he said that than a waiter appeared with a gin and tonic, which Nanette must have ordered on his behalf. Why not? he figured.

· · ·

Sam was hungrier than he had expected, and he ate his fill. The waiter brought dish after dish of North African mezze, plus plenty of wine. He hadn’t realized they were drinking quite so much until the waiter uncorked the second bottle.

Between that and his lack of sleep, he felt like he was floating. It was a precarious sensation, but also quite pleasant considering everything he’d endured in the past twenty-four hours. An oud player calmly plucked his instrument in the corner of the restaurant, adding to the serene atmosphere. Sam was finally able to put his auditor’s brain on idle, content to let Nanette dictate the flow of conversation. She blessedly steered clear of any mention of either Charlie or Pfluger Klaxon, and they might have avoided the subjects altogether if Sam hadn’t blundered during a moment of relaxation, right after the waiter brought the coffee.

“One thing about all this that still bothers me,” he said, the thought rising to the surface like a bubble. “Why was Charlie fully dressed when he was shot? I mean, considering what he was supposedly there for.”

“Maybe he had, well, finished?”

“I thought that, too. But in an office? That’s where they went, as far as I could tell. There was no bed, no couch. Nothing but a desk.”

Nanette raised her eyebrows at the mention of the desk.

“A small desk,” he clarified.

“You’re blushing, Sam.”

She reached across the table to touch his hand. Then she smiled. Or had he imagined the touch? Her hand was already back on her side of the table. He was wrung out. Sauced and marinated, too. Venturing back onto the subject of the murder was making his mind pop and buzz like neon, a jazzed condition that seemed likely to persist as long as Nanette kept looking at him so intently with those vivid green eyes. Her cheeks were flushed, the way they were after her workouts at the Manhattan health club.

“I hate to admit this,” she said, “but it bothers me, too.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Mostly because none of the possible explanations are very flattering.”

For a briefly giddy moment he thought she was about to describe the various sexual positions that could be achieved atop a small desk. He then realized from her downcast expression that it was something more serious.

“Charlie may have been more deeply involved in this whole thing than we’d like to admit,” she said. “It’s one reason we’re not demanding an autopsy.”

“By ‘this whole thing,’ you mean prostitution?”

She nodded gravely. Sam couldn’t help but recall his conversation with Charlie as they’d waited in line at the York.

“He did seem to know a lot about how the business worked. Or at least its origins.”

“I’m afraid we have to entertain the idea that he may have been more than just a customer. It’s a thriving trade here, in case you hadn’t noticed. Gobs of money. And, well, with all the places Charlie regularly travels—traveled, sorry—he certainly would have been well positioned to help with, shall we say, manpower procurement.”

“You really think so?”

Then why the big lecture on atonement? Sam wondered. Unless Charlie had, once again, been toying with him. What a fool Sam had been.

“He mentioned something about next Monday.”

“Monday?” Nanette seemed to perk up.

“Big doings, apparently. Or maybe he was baiting me. He said he’d canceled his flight to Hong Kong and was going to stick around.”

“I suppose all this could explain why he got so upset when the police raided the Cyclone. If he was truly in the flesh trade, a crackdown would’ve been bad for business.”

Sam’s mind careened drunkenly back through everything Charlie and he had done, trying to see the events in a different light. It only made him dizzy.

“You know,” he finally said, “this Lieutenant Assad was pretty interested in Charlie’s movements. Especially his local contacts.”

“Oh, dear. This could be embarrassing. What did you tell him?”

“All that I knew. I thought we wanted to help—”

“Of course we do. And you were right to be open and honest.”

“Except about the datebook.”

“The datebook?”

“I’ve been meaning to tell you. After you said to get his BlackBerry, well, it wasn’t there. But he had a datebook in his pocket, so I took it.”

“And you didn’t turn it over to the police?”

He nodded.

“You should have told me sooner, Sam. This could have created a real problem.”

“I guess it slipped my mind. And the consulate didn’t seem like the right place to bring it up, since I didn’t have it with me.”

“Where is it now?”

“In my room. I stuck it in a drawer.”

“You should get it for me, right after dinner. In case the police search your room.”

“Why would they do that?”

“Why wouldn’t they? In a place like Dubai you can never be sure who is working for whom. Especially with the police. They’re staffed by foreigners, mostly, and the pay is terrible. Another reason we should move you back to Manhattan as soon as possible. They’ll be looking for someone to pin this on. Besides, you’ll want to attend the funeral.”

“Of course.” He swallowed hard, imagining a tearful widow. “So you won’t be needing me here?”

“When I spoke with Lieutenant Assad, I gathered he had reassured himself on whatever doubts he had expressed earlier.”

Sam supposed he should feel relieved, but he was oddly disappointed. Was it the wine, or was it that part of him had begun to enjoy participating in something a little reckless and unscripted for a change? Or maybe he felt he owed it to Charlie to see things through.

“Look, Sam. From here on out, matters are only likely to get more complicated. Apart from the personal tragedy, we have to worry about competitive considerations as well. Corporate secrets may have been compromised. I’m sure some policemen are only too happy to participate in that market.”

It made him think of the second detective, the fat one called Sharaf. He’d certainly looked like the type who might try to cash in.

“Well, the datebook didn’t seem to have any information like that.”

“You looked through it?”

Was it his imagination, or did she disapprove?

“Only briefly. Last night before bed. Or this morning, I guess it was. I’ve sort of lost track of time.”

“And?”

“He’d only written on one page. Three names with local numbers, and none of them were our people. Plus a bunch of numbers and letters. Maybe a code, maybe nothing.”

“Then we’ll forward the information to the authorities, of course. The same with his BlackBerry, once we’ve removed any proprietary information.”

“You found it?”

“The consular people did, in his hotel room. I’ll tell you what, Sam. How about if you retrieve that datebook while I pay the bill? Corporate account, of course, so it’s my treat. Then you can bring it downstairs to my room. I have to take care of a few arrangements for tomorrow with the concierge, then I’ll meet you there. Room 408.”

“Now?”

“Sooner is better, don’t you think? I’d have thought you’d be relieved to get rid of it.”

“You’re right.”

He headed upstairs, tipsy in the elevator, then panicking when he couldn’t find the datebook right away. But it was still in the drawer, hiding beneath the hotel directory. He flipped it open for a final glance. It was then that the meticulous side of him, the part that always demanded thoroughness, backups, and double-checking, kicked back into gear. Given what Nanette had said about the police, he decided to write down the information, in case they lost it or, worse, never followed up. The names might be Charlie’s contacts in the flesh trade, the very people who had done him in. Even if the man was crooked, his killers deserved to be punished.

So, feeling a little sneaky, Sam took a sheet of hotel stationery and logged everything verbatim, even the gibberish Charlie had written at the bottom after the “Monday, 4/14!” reference. He folded the paper twice and stuffed it in his wallet.

He arrived at the doorway of 408 before Nanette, and had to wait for a few awkward minutes in the corridor until she rounded the corner from the elevators.

“Sorry it took me so long.”

Sam reached into his pocket.

“I’ve got the—”

“Not here. Just bring it into the room. In fact, why don’t you stay for a nightcap? I’m sure there’s something suitable in the minibar.”

“I, uh, sure.”

He flushed at the possible implications of her invitation, and as he nervously followed her through the door she stopped abruptly, causing him to bump into her from behind, just across the threshold.

“Excuse me,” she said, “but I’ve dropped my key card.” She turned and gently nudged him backward, pushing her fingertips against his chest. “If you’ll just back up a step so I can pick it up.”

She stooped beneath him, her perfume reaching him on a heady updraft.

“There. Come on in. Gin and tonic, right?”

“Sure.”

She mixed it strong, and they sat side by side on a love seat by the window—or small couch, he supposed. Thinking of it as a love seat seemed reckless. He sipped carefully, aroused but wary, while she asked him where he had grown up, what places he liked to travel—small talk that seemed to be leading nowhere until she moved closer and, with a look of great intensity, placed a hand on his knee.

“So tell me something, Sam.”

“Yes?”

Her face was inches from his. Her lipstick looked very moist, like she had just applied a fresh coat. He found it a little hard to believe this was happening, but in his dreamlike state it somehow seemed perfectly plausible.

“You certainly seem like the type who doesn’t like to let go of something once you’ve sunk your teeth into it. Am I right?”

“I do tend to chew things over, I guess.”

“Which is an asset. You’re steadfast, persistent. It’s why Gary hired you.”

“But?”

She smiled. Dazzling. He sipped his gin and tonic.

“See? You even anticipated the ‘but.’ But, as I was indeed about to say, this time I want you to let go, for your own mental health and well-being. Leave the mess for others to clean up for a change. And by all means stop torturing yourself over Charlie. The man was a natural-born charmer, so at some point you were bound to let him slip his leash. If there was ever a leash to begin with. Gary and I certainly weren’t very clear in our marching orders.”

Charlie. Just hearing the name made him think of the man’s rakish grin, his sense of fun. Then he thought of how Charlie had looked at the end—the ragged hole in his chest, the blood-soaked suit.

“Sam?”

He looked up, startled to find Nanette still there, ever so close.

“See?” she said. “You’re doing it now, aren’t you? Going over everything again in your mind. It’s a form of torture, really, for people like you.”

He supposed it was true. Why else would he have taken down the names from the datebook unless, at some level, he was still replaying everything in his head. And he did want to find out what had really happened, and why.

“You’re right,” he said. “It’s just how I’m wired, I guess.”

“That’s why you needed this drink, this moment of calm. And it’s why I rather enjoy helping to, well, distract you for a while. You might even say it’s my corporate duty.”

She moved marginally closer and slid her hand a bit higher from his knee. Now he could smell her lipstick. He wondered how it would taste when mixed with the juniper sharpness of the gin.

“You’re a very nice distraction,” he said.

“Thank you. But we have to be careful, you know.”

She retreated slightly, no more than an inch or two, just enough to make him wonder if he had said the wrong thing.

“Careful?”

“With appearances. In Dubai, I mean. They’re very sensitive about these male-female arrangements. Unless you’re married, it’s practically a crime to even touch in public. And being in the same hotel room together like this, well …”

“Really?”

“Oh, yes. It’s why I always advise male and female associates traveling together in this part of the world to stay on different floors, sometimes even in different hotels. And by all means never, ever look too cozy at the breakfast table. Or don’t you ever read those little memos I send out?”

“Sure. Sometimes.”

She smiled at his obvious discomfort. Then she removed her hand from his knee.

“It’s all right. I know you’re probably too busy. But the police do make a fuss about it here. That and drugs. One poor fellow was locked up for months when they found a poppy seed in the sole of his shoe.”

“Wow.”

“You’ve seen them in action. Do you trust them?”

He thought of Assad’s threats, and the rudeness of the other one, Sharaf, plus the vibe that something hadn’t been quite right between them.

“No. I don’t.”

“Nor do I. So we’ll try to keep you insulated.”

“But I want to help.”

“Do that through me, then. It’s my job. Not always the easiest job, I’ll confess. Nor do I always get the support I need from our boardroom. Another issue entirely, but it’s why I can sympathize so easily with your feeling of helplessness. And this time you really do need to just let go. I don’t want you to be too easily available for any mischief the police might try. Sometimes they’ll file charges just to extort a bribe, knowing we’ll pay. And the possibility that Charlie was up to his eyeballs in this mess certainly wouldn’t strengthen our hand if something like that happened. So until you’re safely aboard a flight home, lay low. And if all else fails there’s always Hal Liffey at the consulate. They’d offer sanctuary, I’m sure, as long as I vouched for you.”

“Thanks.”

Her words, although intended to reassure, were a little unsettling. He also wondered vaguely what had become of the intimacy of a few moments ago. She seemed to have edged even farther away.

“Sam?”

“Yes?”

“You look exhausted. I should let you go.”

It was an exit line, and fortunately he wasn’t too addled to take the hint. How had he ever let himself believe that she was making a move on him? He supposed he had misread her completely, although as he rode the elevator back to his floor her signals still puzzled him. If he hadn’t been so wiped out they might have kept him awake for quite a while. As it was, he slipped almost immediately into a deep and healing sleep, not stirring until well after sunrise, when he was awakened by an insistent knocking.

He threw on a hotel robe and opened the door.

Two policemen in khaki stood in the hallway. Neither was Lieutenant Assad. Perhaps there was news of an arrest.

“Are you Mr. Sam Keller?”

“Yes.”

“You are pleased to get dressed and accompany to us.”

“I’m what?”

“You are being in our custody with us, Mr. Keller. You are under our arrest.”

“Arrest? On what charge?”

“You are pleased to get dressed, sir, and accompany to us. Now, sir, let us go. Unless we are forced to take evasive action.”

The second cop, smaller and wirier, had apparently had enough of this ridiculous exchange. He gripped Sam’s forearm with surprising strength and pulled him out the door.

“Arrest!” he shouted, thrusting his face within inches of Sam’s. “You come! Arrest!”

“But I haven’t done anything!” he said, pulling for all he was worth. Everything Nanette had said about the police came charging back, dark and frightening. It was a frame-up, and he was the victim.

“Let go!” he shouted.

The shorter cop struck him sharply across the jaw, a blow that tumbled him to the floor. Then the first cop handcuffed him and hauled him to his feet.

“You are pleased, sir, to get dressed and accompany to us!” he said again. “You are under our arrest.”