Layover in Dubai (12 page)

All his illegal motives just towards the easy and shortly gain, ignoring the theorem of being either his legitimate or illicit rights. But no longer, he had fallen under Criminal Investigation grasps.

Habash’s ambition made him susceptible to the least bit of supervisory pressure, and Sharaf had mastered the art of exploiting him. Having Habash posted just outside his door was like having a handy tool within easy reach.

“I’ll take care of this one, Habash.” Sharaf handed the man a five-dirham note. “Go get a cup of tea. He’s more trouble than he’s worth, anyway.”

It was far more generous treatment than Habash was used to, but he resisted anyway.

“But, I can’t, sir. I—”

“Habash, are you really going to be so ungrateful?”

“No, sir. It’s just that Lieutenant Assad said that I, personally, was to—”

“I’ll deal with Lieutenant Assad. By now he will have already forgotten your name. The only decision you need to worry about in the next half hour is milk or sugar. Hand me the paperwork. All of it, please.”

“You can’t have the complaint!” Habash bent protectively over his typewriter. “I’m still writing it up.”

Even ambitious flunkies had their limits, and Sharaf knew better than to risk further ill will.

“The affidavit, then. It looks finished.”

He snatched it from the desk before Habash could protest. Better than nothing, he supposed.

Habash looked doleful, as if he knew this would only lead to trouble. He nonetheless took Sharaf’s money and bolted for the door, hoping perhaps that everything would turn out okay if he fled quickly enough from the scene of the crime. His departure set off a fresh round of groans from the waiting area, where everyone was quick to note that only two of the six desks were now manned.

“This way,” Sharaf said to Keller.

The American looked like he didn’t know whether to be relieved or upset. Not having read the charges, Sharaf couldn’t yet say which reaction was more appropriate. He shut the door to his office. Keller took the only other chair, facing directly across the desk.

“I should have known you were behind this,” Keller said.

“Sergeant Habash seems to think it was Lieutenant Assad’s idea.”

“Oh, I see. Good cop, bad cop. Which one are you?”

“I’m the ignorant cop, looking for an education.”

“On a stupid trumped-up sex charge?”

“Sex
charge? Assad is charging you for what happened at the York?”

“No. For what happened last night at the hotel. Or didn’t happen. It’s a complete misunderstanding, and if you’d just phone Ms. Weaver …”

“Please. Allow me to examine the paperwork. I might actually be able to help.”

The affidavit had been filed by the hotel security staff. Apparently someone had observed bawdy behavior on a hallway surveillance camera. Hardly the first time Sharaf had seen such a charge, but it was fairly astonishing at a high-ticket spot like the Shangri-La, where Westerners were generally allowed to cavort as much as they pleased, as long as it was behind closed doors. Perhaps the security man was new. Or maybe Assad had indeed played a role, seeking something in return.

“So they arrested you at your hotel room?”

“Woke me up. I was alone, of course, not that anyone cared. The whole thing’s ridiculous. All they need to do is contact Ms. Weaver. She’d clear it up in about ten seconds. By now she’s probably wondering where the hell I am. If this is your way of pressuring me for more information, you’re wasting your time. I’m more than willing to cooperate. This will only get a lot of people upset over nothing.”

Obviously the fellow had no idea what he was up against. But Keller wouldn’t be at all useful to him in this agitated state unless Sharaf could first develop some leverage.

“So you think this charge is
nothing?
Are you aware of the penalties in my country for this kind of behavior, Mr. Keller? I have seen men brought in on suspicion of prostitution simply for occupying the backseat of a taxi with an unmarried woman. Another poor fellow got three years—three
years
, sir—for disrobing on the beach at night with his girlfriend.”

Sharaf watched, satisfied, as Keller’s eyes widened.

“We are a young country, Mr. Keller. Young and wealthy. And like any young and wealthy individual, we can famously act on a whim, with a spirited temper to match. So, whatever you do, do not underestimate the grave potential of the charge facing you.”

Keller swallowed hard. Sharaf placed a freshly opened bottle of water before him, and the man dutifully drank some. When Keller next spoke, his voice was subdued, chastened.

“But I really did do nothing. Ms. Weaver will back me up.”

“Don’t worry, I will contact her shortly. We at least owe you that much. Yet what am I to make of this affidavit? The hotel staff cites the indisputable evidence of video footage in which you are very clearly seen entering the room of a female guest late last night. In an obvious state of intoxication, I might add.”

Keller reddened, then seemed to recover some of his previous spirit, and he sat up a little straighter. Sharaf was relieved to see it. In order for his plan—still hazy, still forming—to stand any chance of success, the American would first have to show some potential for tenacity, even rebelliousness.

“Look. Yes, I went in her room. Guilty as charged. But it was for business. I was delivering a …”

He paused, seeming to stumble as he reddened slightly. “I was delivering a business item that Ms. Weaver had requested. And if they check the time signature of the video they’ll no doubt see I was only there a few minutes.”

Sharaf wondered what sort of “business item” could have made him blush, but that was a subject for later.

“A lot can happen in a few minutes between a man and a woman, Mr. Keller, as you and I well know. But even the possibility of an illicit sexual congress could be overlooked if you hadn’t entered her room so forcefully.”

“Forcefully? She invited me in.”

“Apparently that’s not what the tape shows. I’ll read from the affidavit: ‘Subject then forced his way through doorway, despite female’s attempt to resist. Female pushed subject’s chest, but subject continued forward and shut door behind him.’”

“But that’s crazy. I—”

Keller stopped abruptly, and his frown disappeared.

“Okay,” he said, brightening. “I think I know what happened. She dropped her key card and nudged me back so she could stoop to pick it up. All the video probably shows is her hand coming out through the doorway to push me. Someone in security must have overreacted. That’s all. Just call her. She’ll clear it up.”

“As I said, I plan to. Because I am quite certain this charge will prove to be spurious.”

“You believe me?”

Relief and gratitude showed in Keller’s eyes. And they were good eyes, Sharaf saw. Even in their weariness they conveyed a dogged reliability, a trustworthy competence, the very sort of eyes his wife, Amina, was always drawn to whenever she sought an honest merchant or a reputable doctor.

“Yes, I believe you,” Sharaf said. For the moment, at least, he had an ally. “That is why I am prepared to let you make that phone call. Provided, of course, that you are prepared to help me in return, if only for a few hours.”

Most self-serving scoundrels would have agreed right away. Keller, to his credit, didn’t.

“That depends on what kind of help you want.”

Sharaf was impressed. The question now was how to best put the young man to use without exposing them both to peril—and without the Minister finding out.

His desk phone rang.

Sharaf held up a hand in abeyance. He lifted the receiver to hear a voice from his past, a source from the bare hinterlands, an acquaintance from boyhood days of rabbit hunts and falconry, of royal encampments in empty sands. The man had news, and it was instantly intriguing.

“Where?” Sharaf asked, switching to Arabic.

He noted the location in a rapid scrawl.

“I will come immediately. And thank you, Daoud. As always, your good word and fine service are exceeded only by your generous hospitality. I am in your debt.”

He hung up, and addressed Keller in English.

“It appears I will need your help sooner than expected.” He rose from the desk. “Let’s go, before anyone thinks to reclaim you.”

“Where?”

“To identify a body.”

“But Charlie has been—”

“Not him. A woman. Caucasian, in a blue sequin dress. Sound familiar?”

Keller nodded, speechless. He stood uncertainly. Sharaf then led the way back through the hubbub of the booking area toward the main exit. Fortunately, Sergeant Habash hadn’t returned, and everyone else was bent over their paperwork. The last thing he needed was someone remembering that the two of them had left the building together. They crossed the parking lot to his Camry, which looked very lonely in its far, empty corner.

Then, without a further word between them, Keller and he climbed aboard and headed out onto the busy roadway, where Sharaf pointed his car toward the desert.

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.”