Layover in Dubai (27 page)

“First, change all of our system access codes and passwords. Company-wide, all branches and regions. Nelson in tech support will know what to do. Just tell him the order came directly from me. Do it as soon as we hang up, understand?”

“Sure.”

“Scratch that. I’ll call him myself.”

“It’s okay. I can—”

“Second, cut off all access for this Plevy fellow, effective immediately.”

“But he blew the whistle.”

“You said yourself he’s a bit of a weasel. We have no idea what actually passed between them. It’s the one door Keller has tried, so we may as well nail it shut.”

“Plevy won’t be able to do his job without access.”

“Then suspend him until this matter is concluded.”

“Without
pay?”

“It’s your budget, Gary. Make an executive decision. Or do you need a meeting first?”

Another whistle-blower dumped on, which was regrettable. But she’d certainly experienced that kind of backlash herself more than a few times. It was a vital part of her education on the way up the food chain. No good deed went unpunished, so why keep doing them?

She telephoned Nelson in tech support, reaching him immediately, as she had known she would. His two predecessors had discovered that you made yourself available to Nanette Weaver at all hours or you wound up in the unemployment line.

First she explained the immediate need for everyone to be issued new passwords, except, of course, Plevy.

“Consider it done,” Nelson replied, his mouth full of something wet and sloppy.

She appreciated Nelson, even though he never washed his hair and always stared at her legs. Not only did he do as he was told, but he also occasionally suggested tweaks and improvements, and he never second-guessed.

“Then I want some sort of lock or trap set up to capture the particulars of any attempt to log on to our internal system via any server in the UAE, even if the attempt is made with an incorrect password. Can you arrange that?”

“No problem.”

“How soon?”

“One hour, two at the most.”

Meaning that by midnight, Sam Keller would have no way in, yet would still snag his trousers in the doorway. And once that happened, they would have a fix on his approximate location within a few hours, solving the last of her potential problems now that the renegade policeman Sharaf had been neutralized. Assad, like Gary, had his faults, but he had finally bought her idea that they were badly underestimating the frumpy Sharaf.

Nanette sighed in relief after hanging up. She wouldn’t need coffee, after all, and could instead focus on getting a full night’s rest. The idea of a nightcap was tempting, but she decided against it, knowing she would regret it if the phone rang a few hours later with news of a fresh emergency, or another signal from Keller.

In the morning she would send her assistant, Stanley Woodard, home on the first available flight. Time to clear the decks for action, and he would only be in the way. Because soon enough it would be time for battle, and to judge from all the recent complications, she was now certain that victory would be possible only by leaving no survivors. By the close of business on Monday the 14th, no opponents would remain standing.

Now that was a good thought to sleep on, even without a drink to celebrate.

By his second day on the job, Sam Keller could finally step to the edge of the thirty-first floor—no guardrail, no safety harness—without going weak in the knees, although his blood still rushed to his fingertips. Toward midmorning he even dared a glance at the ground. Blue helmets moved to and fro like jittery pixels on a video display. It made him dizzy, so he quickly looked away.

Sam hadn’t experienced these sensations since he was eleven, when he got stuck on the Swamp Fox roller coaster in Myrtle Beach, S.C., during a power failure that stranded him at the top for four hours. Rising fumes of corn dogs and cotton candy had turned a mild case of vertigo into a queasy ordeal that lasted past midnight. He remembered the rapt upward stares of the people below, openmouthed with anticipation, as if awaiting the next
Hindenburg
disaster. Here, at least, everyone was too busy to pay attention to his misery, so he went about his duties in silence, still drained and disoriented from the chain of events that had led him to this edge of existence.

The job site was in the Marina district, an entire cityscape rising from nothing. From his lofty vantage point Sam counted nearly two hundred high-rises under construction, laid out along canals and channels that snaked from a huge man-made inlet of the Persian Gulf. Cranes clung parasitically to the sides of buildings and were perched atop others. The newly paved streets were quiet, except for the occasional truck hauling in more supplies.

Out along the beach, a recently opened hotel held the area’s only current overnight inhabitants, tourists who seemed bemused to be vacationing at a construction site. One had gaped at Sam’s white face when he stepped off the bus with the other workers, pointing in amazement as if he’d spotted an albino in a stampede of wildebeests. But none of the man’s friends had seemed to notice. It was just like Ali had said. To the rest of Dubai, Sam was now invisible.

He had followed the long stream of men in dust masks and helmets to their work site several blocks away, where he boarded a steel-cage elevator that clanked its way up the side of the skeletal building. The view, while disconcerting, was spectacular. Ocean and sky. Desert and golf courses. And everywhere, more construction in vast housing developments and sprawling business parks. Yellow cranes bloomed like flowers in the wake of a sudden rain.

Where were the millions of people who would live and work here? Sam had no idea, although signs along the approaching roadway still boasted of quick sales—SOLD OUT IN 6 HOURS! SOLD OUT IN 4 HOURS! SOLD OUT IN AN HOUR! or, his favorite, SOLD OUT AT PRE-LAUNCH! It was the giddiness of a pyramid scheme nearing its pinnacle. And up here, where you got a better feel for the scale, he sensed an unsteadiness at the base, a Jell-O quiver beneath the weight of high-yield expectations. Or maybe he was just trembling from his fear of heights.

He was sore, blistered, and sunburned from his first day of labor. Up on the thirty-first floor, any exposed skin was soon burned and chapped from sunlight and the gritty wind. His first job was carrying hods of concrete. But Sam couldn’t keep pace with his stronger and more experienced coworkers, so today the foreman had assigned him to operate a freight elevator to haul up blocks and mortar from a landing five stories below. Workers down there filled the platform, then Sam raised it to stops on the intervening floors.

Like everything else at the job site, the elevator’s diesel motor and cable pulley were jerry-rigged, braced by a framework of scaffolding. Sam had to look down the side of the building to make sure the platform stopped at the right levels, which meant he had to lean out into thin air. He crooked his left arm around the scaffolding for support while operating a lever with his right hand. Not the greatest feeling, but he soon got the hang of it, and was no longer convinced he was about to fall to his death. He even grew accustomed to the gusting desert wind, which made everything groan and wobble. Probably the very sort of blast that had killed Ramesh’s friend, Sanjay.

Fortunately, the elevator job kept Sam far removed from Ramesh. But Vikram had told him of new trouble on that front. Ramesh had apparently convinced other workers from his home village of Sam’s guilt in Sanjay’s demise. This clique was now referring to Sam as the white
jambuka
, or jackal, an animal that feasted on the dead. For today at least, the foreman had assigned Ramesh and his pals to jobs on lower levels.

It was soon time for lunch. There was a jug of water handy, so Sam decided to eat right there. Everyone else, Vikram included, took their food to ground level. Some of the men liked to walk out to the beach in hopes of spotting Western women in bikinis. It was another reason the photography store sold so many disposable cameras. In the barracks Sam had seen revealing snapshots taped to walls and pinned to overhead bunks—fantasy photos that allowed the men to imagine the pleasures of an Angelika from Düsseldorf, an Astrid from Stockholm.

He ate quickly, enjoying the solitude while the sweat cooled on his back. He now felt comfortable enough to swing his feet off the side of the ledge. Looking toward the coast, he saw the distant banners of the government development firms—Nakheel, Emaar, and Tameer—flag after flag snapping in the breeze. Nakheel’s were the last ones you saw before exiting into the Marina district. From his seat on the bus the company slogan had seemed like a taunt: NAKHEEL: WHERE VISION INSPIRES HUMANITY.

Turning east he saw the chockablock shimmer of Media City. He tried without success to pick out Laleh’s building. Thinking back on the day in her office, he realized what a privilege it had been to listen in on her comings and goings as a boss, a planner, a thinker. Even her parents didn’t have that kind of access to the young woman she had become, and Sam believed it had given him an edge, a secret knowledge that might help bridge the gap between their backgrounds. She had hinted as much herself, telling him with a complicit smile, “Don’t ever mention a word about all this to my father.” By “all this” it was clear she meant not just her workplace habits or manner of dress, but also her air of relative freedom in a world that was more like Sam’s than the one her parents knew.

He wondered if she had yet replied to his e-mail message from the night before. He had sent it by paying a few dirhams to use the Internet on the camera store’s desktop computer. The store’s dial-up modem was maddeningly slow, but it had also allowed him to do some further online sleuthing.

Two messages from Plevy had been waiting on his Gmail account.

“See first 2 attachments,” the first one said. “N has been quite the traveler. Also note third one. You have officially attained pariah status.”

Sam frowned and clicked his way through the items. The first was the most recent audit of Nanette Weaver. The second was a compilation of her three most recent quarterly reports. Few things leaped out except, as Plevy had hinted, her extensive travels—most notably several trips to Dubai plus another to her old diplomatic stomping grounds in Moscow. He filed away the dates for future reference.

One oddity was a commendation for a project she had worked on nearly a year ago with none other than Charlie Hatcher, although further details revealed it to be nothing more than an effort to streamline and secure shipping routes from the Far East.

Plevy’s third attachment was a company memo announcing that auditor Samuel Keller had gone AWOL in Dubai following “a criminal complaint alleging an attempted sexual assault on a coworker,” which it said was part of “a pattern of reckless personal conduct that may have led to the death of a valued associate, Charles Hatcher.”

Outrageous, but the fuse for an explosion refused to light. Too damp from weariness and despair. Sam was in exile in a prison of dust and sewage, stranded among thousands of overworked men of other nations and tongues.

“Shit!” he shouted, more in despair than in fury. His curse drew the attention of the Punjabi shopkeeper, who checked his watch and exclaimed, “Your time is run out! Ten more dirhams, or vacate the premises!”

Sam was about to sign off when he remembered he hadn’t opened Plevy’s second e-mail, which had arrived only a few hours later. It was a shock.

“What did you do, asshole? I’m suspended w/o pay, so fuck off! You better hope N finds you first.”

So much for a lifeline. It probably also meant Ansen’s password was no longer operable. He thought about trying it, but his instincts told him to lay low for now.

“Ten dirhams!” the shopkeeper shouted. “Ten dirhams or you must go now!”

It was then that Sam thought of Laleh, the only person he could still expect any sympathy from. So, he paid another ten dirhams from his precious supply, pulled out her business card for her e-mail address, and told her about his first day on the job. He kept the location vague, figuring that by now someone might be monitoring his Gmail account. He probably shouldn’t have sent the message at all, but he told himself he was doing it because Laleh was a more reliable link to Ali than Zafar. The real reason was that he felt better just typing her name. He imagined her reading the message in her bedroom, with the teen queen posters at one end and the all-business stuff at her desk. He smiled and clicked SEND. Then the owner chased him out of the shop.

Sam was finishing lunch when he heard the lurch of the personnel elevator. A bit surprising for anyone to be returning this soon. Glancing toward the ground, he saw that no blue helmets were yet streaming back to the building. Maybe Vikram had come to keep him company. He heard the door clank shut and looked over his shoulder to see Ramesh briskly moving toward him, fists clenched.

Sam carefully swung his legs off the ledge and stood slowly, all too aware of being within inches of a four-hundred-foot drop. He sidled left and crooked an arm around the scaffolding of the freight elevator.

Ramesh stopped about ten feet away, breathing fast and watching him carefully, as if planning his next move. A gritty burst of wind gusted in from the desert, and the framework swayed and groaned. Sweat beaded down Sam’s back like the stroke of a fingernail. Ramesh broke into a grin and stepped closer. He was huge. If he got a firm hold, it would be only a matter of seconds before either Sam lost his grip or the shaky framework collapsed, so Sam let go and moved quickly to his right, staying on the balls of his feet in a slight crouch. The vague memory of a basketball coach telling him to slide fast and stay low flashed across his mind. Ramesh would reach him in another two steps.

Sam faked left, then dodged right as Ramesh lunged toward him. By the time the big man had recovered, Sam was on safer footing, away from the precipice. If he could beat Ramesh to the other elevator, he might be able to jump aboard and throw the switch. But Ramesh blocked his path and lunged again. He was agile for his size, and got a hand on a sleeve before Sam was able to twist free. They were both panting now. The wind gusted again, the grit stinging Sam’s eyes.