go. That was Salim’s first mistake. Not waiting for ground support. He’s never known the right way to deal with my father.”
“And what is the right way?”
“Obviously I haven’t discovered it, or I wouldn’t still be living at home at the age of twenty-four. I run my own company, you know. Did my father tell you that?”
“He hasn’t told me much of anything.”
“He can be like that. Is filter coffee okay?”
“Sure. So who else lives here?” He realized it was a nosy question. “Sorry. That was a little, well …”
“Blunt? Intrusive?” She appeared at the doorway, tray in hand.
“Yes.”
She set the tray on a small table and sat across from him, then watched as he took a sip. The coffee was strong, exactly what he needed. A moment ago he had been exhausted and out of sorts. Now he felt tuned to a perfect pitch, alert to every word and gesture. Her graceful movements were like a tonic.
“It’s all right,” she said. “I am accustomed to blunt. Everyone I work with is blunt. Englishmen mostly. Or Europeans. Media and public relations types who still act like boys and want to get rich in a hurry. Blunt is the only way they know how to be.”
“Oh.”
It was chastening to be lumped with a bunch of cads, but he was disarmed by her ease with his way of speaking. It wasn’t just that her English was good. She had the right mannerisms and cadences, too, even the offhand tone. Her father, for all the breadth of his vocabulary and flawless grammar, didn’t have that facility.
“Do you want milk? Sugar?”
“Black is fine.”
“My business is in Media City. Have you been there?”
“No. I’m in pharmaceuticals. Pfluger Klaxon. What kind of company do you own?”
“A marketing firm, specializing in visuals. Graphic design and so on. Although we’re capable of handling the copy end as well. I still live with my parents because my mother and father wouldn’t allow it any other way. Even in the business world, women here must do things the old way. If you are not married, you must live with your parents.”
He wasn’t sure how to react to all that. He was charmed, but he also found himself thinking of her as a bit of a spoiled rich girl. She was smart and bored, so Daddy put up the money for a business start-up, which helped get her out of the house. Strange, he supposed, but hardly the strangest thing he’d seen in Dubai. It reminded him anew of how little he knew about most of the places he visited; all those doings that percolated just beneath the surface.
“You know,” she said, “Pfluger Klaxon would be far better off with a larger public presence here. In marketing and supplying their products, I mean. It really wouldn’t take much, considering the poor state of medicine in this country.”
Sam stopped in mid-sip, astonished. It was exactly what he had been thinking before the trip. Because for all of Dubai’s wealth and boomtown feel, it was known as a place where even wealthy expats didn’t find it easy to get the best pharmaceuticals. The company could have easily built more goodwill simply by making its products more readily available.
“You’re right. Exactly right.”
“Well, if your people ever decide on that course, I can advise them on the best way to handle it, with maximum publicity benefit.” She handed him a business card.
A born salesman, then. Already she had wedged her foot in the door, and she had managed it in a manner that made him smile. Maybe she was no dilettante after all.
“I’m sure you could. Thank you.”
Sam slipped her card into the lapel pocket of his suit coat, and took a fresh look at his surroundings. He was again impressed. The furniture and fixtures were stylish but comfortable, in complementary earth tones. Someone in the family had a good eye for these things, and enough money to pull it off.
“You seem surprised by our house,” she said.
“I am. In America you wouldn’t generally find this much good taste and, well, prosperity, in the home of a police detective.”
“And why is this?”
“Well, police salaries in America are pretty lousy.”
“They are here, too. Practically a beggar’s wages.”
“Oh. Then how …” His voice trailed off.
“How do we afford all this?”
He wasn’t sure he wanted to know, now that he had pinned his hopes to Sharaf. But he nodded anyway.
“The land and the house were free. Every citizen gets one. The rest comes from the businesses he owns, of course.”
“Businesses? Your father?”
“The Punjabis and Iranians who come here to open shops and restaurants must have someone to sign the documents, to stand in as a local owner. So my father has done that for maybe twelve of them. On paper, he is the owner. In reality, the Punjabi is, or the Iranian. The foreigner, of course, does all of the work. But out of gratitude
