Layover in Dubai

“Just said ‘Hello,’ or ‘How are you,’ something like that. Then they ran off.”

“And you’re sure you didn’t go with them?”

Sam frowned.

“I’m not into that.”

“I am not talking about sex, Mr. Keller, and I think you know it.”

“Then what are you talking about? And where’s the woman?”

“I suspect you know the answer to both those questions.”

What was happening? Why had Assad turned on him? Or had that been the lieutenant’s plan all along? Sam decided to say nothing.

“Tell me again about your earlier stop at the Palace Hotel. The one with the rendezvous with the member of the staff.”

“I told you what I know. Charlie met someone in the lobby.”

“Yes, but tell me what was said.”

“I didn’t hear it.”

“Have you always had such poor hearing, Mr. Keller?”

“I wasn’t privy to the conversation.”

“Of course you were.”

Sam shook his head. He was exhausted, upset, and now he was worried.

“Why are you doing this?”

“There are too many gaps in your story. Convenient lapses of hearing and memory.”

Sam had nothing to gain by speaking further. His nervousness gave way to anger. First, the fat cop had taunted him. Now the smart, smooth one was practically accusing him of complicity. And poor Charlie was still dead on the floor in the room across the hall.

Assad snapped his notebook shut and leaned forward.

“What I ought to do, Mr. Keller, is take you down to the jail and let you consider these matters further until I can question you after breakfast, or maybe lunch, or even dinner. Instead I am going to let you return to your hotel. But once you have had time to rest, I will want to speak with you again. And when I do, you had better give me the full version. Do you understand?”

Sam was about to protest, but figured that might prompt a trip to jail. Besides, in one sense Assad was right. Sam was holding out on him. He’d been spying on Charlie and had confiscated the man’s datebook. Not the sort of complicity Assad suspected, but complicity all the same. So he nodded and said nothing.

“Be ready after breakfast,” Assad said. “I will come to your hotel.”

As far as Sam was concerned, Nanette couldn’t get here soon enough.

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.