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
“Sorry, Father, but I’m late.” Her face was sullen, unrepentant.
“We’ll discuss it this evening. Be home by ten!”
“I’m
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.”
