Your ministerial rivals, he could have added, but didn’t.
For a moment the Minister said nothing. Sharaf imagined him cringing as he considered the various friends and associates he might alienate if things went wrong. Sharaf had seen it before—bosses who talked big about cleaning house, then blanched as the day of reckoning drew near. Fine by him. If the Minister backed out, so would Sharaf. But, somewhat to his surprise, Sharaf found himself hoping for the opposite. Having poked a toe in the water, he was now itching to make the dive. A last plunge for old times’ sake. Or maybe he just relished the challenge.
The Minister sighed.
“Okay, then. But work it from our side only. And for the moment leave the Americans alone.”
“You’re already tying one hand behind my back.”
“Those are my rules. If you’re as good as everyone says, it shouldn’t prevent you from achieving success.”
Another reason Sharaf preferred to be underestimated. It kept expectations lower.
“Don’t expect a miracle,” he said.
And don’t expect me to play by your rules, he thought after hanging up. Because the first thing he needed to do was to come up with some excuse for contacting the second American, rules be damned. Like father, like daughter, he supposed. No wonder Laleh was so defiant. Sharaf restarted the Camry and crept back into the maelstrom.
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.
