“I was hoping you’d know.”
“Russian, I’m guessing. Not my kind of people. You’re the one who speaks their language.”
“Money and power is their language. I’ve heard you’re fluent.”
“You never did say what you’re doing here.”
“Daoud is an old friend. He found the body. You’ll have to forgive him for playing favorites. Obviously someone else must have phoned it in as well. But I’m happy to leave the matter in your hands. There’s a Makarov beneath her, by the way. Please make sure it finds its way to the evidence room. And whenever you’re interested in trading reports, my offer stands.”
Assad scowled and didn’t reply. Sharaf crossed the highway to the Camry and climbed in, taking care not to open the door too widely. As he started the engine he hissed a warning to Keller, locking his lips like a ventriloquist.
“Stay down. The lieutenant has his eye on me.”
And a baleful eye it was, making Sharaf wonder yet again what he was getting into, sinking deeper by the minute into choppy waters. He eased the car into a slow, looping turn to head back toward the city. Fluency in money and power, indeed. Sharaf shook his head. It was a stupid thing to have said.
He waited a full mile before he spoke again.
“Maybe you had better stay down for the whole ride. It would not do either of us any good to be seen together.”
“Where are you taking me?”
“Excellent question. For the moment I have no answer. They will have the hotel staked out, of course, so that’s not a possibility. Do you have your passport?”
“Yes. But not my phone or my BlackBerry. They’re at the hotel. Wouldn’t it be safer if you just took me to the U.S. Consulate?”
“Maybe. They might even decide to fly you home, possibly as soon as tonight.”
“Sounds good.”
“Not to me. I cannot afford to have them put you beyond my reach. Remember our deal? I help you, you help me?”
“I don’t remember agreeing. And I’m not sure I’d call this helping.”
“Getting in the car with me and hiding from Assad was just as good as an answer, wouldn’t you say so? You are in this now whether you like it or not.”
“You did promise to let me call Ms. Weaver.”
“And so I shall. The timing is another matter. Why put her in jeopardy with knowledge of your whereabouts until we’ve decided upon a secure location?”
“But maybe she could—”
“Please. I will judge when it is best.”
“But if I—”
“Quiet, sir. I need to think.”
He also needed to calm down. Having Keller in the car was like driving a load of stolen goods. He kept expecting Assad’s car to come roaring up from behind, headlights flashing. But as the miles passed with nothing but the whine of the tires and the whoosh of passing trucks, Sharaf relaxed, and his mind drifted into memories that had been stirred by the sight of his old friend Daoud.
As a young boy Sharaf had considered the Bedouins to be foolish, living in their goat-smelling tents far from the comforts of the city when, like him, they could have dwelled along a tidal creek, with its cool breezes and fine homes. Then, at age eleven, he met Daoud. It happened when his father, flexing the muscle of sudden wealth and new connections, purchased four hunting falcons and got himself invited on a royal hunt.
His father had bought the birds at a dear price from a desert trader. He gave one to Sharaf, who was supposed to keep the bird with him morning, noon, and night, in order to properly feed and train it. Sharaf’s tutors were delighted. Sharaf wasn’t. Going to sleep with a bird of prey in your bedroom was downright creepy. It preened and fretted, and its little leather hood made it look like it was awaiting execution.
When the time came for the royal hunt, Sharaf accompanied his father and their four birds. They rode in the back of a Range Rover, one of three vehicles in a royal procession packed with two dozen men and boys. They drove for hours, deep into the desert. That evening Sharaf watched in fascination as Sheikh Rashid’s men set up the encampment—an oval of tents with a surrounding screen of palm fronds, to keep out the wind, the snakes, and the scorpions. They put a fire ring in the middle, along with a giant kettle.
Sharaf slept in a tent with two of Sheikh Rashid’s younger sons and their friends. They were welcoming enough, but were several years older, and he would have felt lost if not for Daoud, who was his own age and also an outlier of sorts. Daoud’s father was the hunting party’s Bedouin tracker and guide.
In the morning, after prayers and breakfast, everyone stood at the ready, birds on their arms. Sharaf remembered his father looking particularly proud, although he had already heard some of the other men making fun of the names his father had given their birds. Sharaf had expected nonstop action, but the hunt evolved slowly as the sun climbed above the dunes. It was a painstaking process of stalking and waiting while Daoud’s father searched the sand for fresh footprints of the elusive houbara.
After a fruitless few hours, Sharaf’s father, thinking he knew better, released all four of their birds anyway to go search for prey on their own. Sharaf was surprised to feel a tug of sorrow as he watched his own bird disappear over the horizon. Half an hour later, Daoud’s father found a promising set of tracks, and sent the rest of the birds off in the opposite direction from the Sharaf falcons. Even then, success wasn’t guaranteed. In all, the hunters released more than forty birds, and by day’s end nine hadn’t returned, including one of Sheikh Rashid’s. It was apparently common for some of the falcons to lose their way over the vastness of the desert.
