He brewed a pot of coffee and took a steaming cup to his office at the center of the house, where he shut the door, opened his cell phone, and punched in the number for the Minister, another early riser.
“Sharaf?”
“Just checking in.”
“Early, but I’m glad you called. I have something for you. Straight from the heart of the matter.”
“Our Slavic friends?”
“Word from the Tsar himself. Via my contacts, of course.” The Minister claimed to have sources in all sorts of unlikely places. Sharaf didn’t know whether to be impressed or alarmed.
“Big doings tonight. A rare summit conference with the Persians. Eight o’clock.”
“I thought we called them Iranians now. What’s the location?”
“Neutral territory, out in the open. The mall at the Burjuman. Beyond that, my source couldn’t be more specific, but I’m sure you’ll manage to find them.”
“Probably one of the restaurants in the upper courtyard. What’s the agenda?”
“That’s what I want you to find out.”
“Hard to see how, unless they invite me to join them.”
“Oh, come on. You’re a resourceful man.”
“Who tells you these things?”
“About you or the Russians? And what does it matter, as long as it’s correct? By the way, about that American.”
Sharaf tensed. He wondered what the Minister had heard.
“The dead one?”
“The live one. The witness. I’m told he has disappeared.”
“I heard the same thing.”
“You know nothing more?”
“Why should I?”
“Because you were interested in him. You told me so yourself.”
“And you said to steer clear.”
“Come on, Sharaf. I know how you operate. Where do you think he’s gone?”
“To the embassy in Abu Dhabi, if he has any brains.”
“Seeking asylum? Do you really think they would smuggle him out?”
“His employer certainly has the clout. You’re the one with the connections. You tell me.”
Silence. Sharaf suspected the Minister was smiling knowingly, having guessed the truth but trusting Sharaf not to screw things up. Or maybe that was wishful thinking.
“Don’t make trouble for us, Sharaf. Don’t get reckless on me.”
“Of course not.”
“And keep me posted on tonight’s events.”
That went without saying.
A few moments later, the dawn call to prayer sounded from the neighborhood mosque, with its signature line, “Prayer is better than sleep.” He heard Laleh groan in disagreement from her bed as he trooped to the kitchen for more coffee. Still not a peep out of Keller. He expected Amina to appear in her robe to make breakfast, as was her custom. When she didn’t he sighed and made it himself, setting out fruit, bread, and yogurt on the table. Then he unfolded the morning’s fresh copy of
The front page was the usual silliness, bright colors and bold headlines splashed on extravagantly glossy paper: An Israeli war game was in progress, drawing the typically hysterical reaction. Six new lanes had opened on Emirates Road, bringing it to twelve in all. Atop the page was a headline announcing that Sheikh Mohammed had been named the UAE’s “Distinguished Personality of the Year.” Now there was a surprise. He was indeed a great man, but this daily pandering was annoying.
Sharaf flipped the page. The agency handling car registrations was planning to auction the rights to more license tags with single-digit numbers. It seemed like a pretty good idea, seeing as how someone had paid $15 million for a tag with the number 1. He turned another page. Three killed in horrendous crash. Local college girl arrested for smoking hashish. Did Laleh know her?
There was nothing about a woman’s body being found in the desert, not that he had expected any coverage. Nothing yet about Charlie Hatcher, either. He had heard that the news would be released this afternoon, which would produce a brief onslaught of foreign press inquiries. He was happy to let Lieutenant Assad handle them.
Down at the bottom of page five was a brief about a missing tourist. Sharaf scanned it and moved on to sports, but something about the story set a hook deep in his mind. Flipping back a page, he reread the item carefully. A few moments later he rose from the table, walked quietly down the hall, and slipped into the guest bedroom. Taking care to make as little noise as possible, he lifted Keller’s trousers from the back of a chair, checked the back pockets, found the man’s wallet and passport, left them both in place, and then folded the trousers over his arm. He picked up Keller’s belt, shirt, undershorts, socks, and shoes from a small, neat pile at the foot of the bed. Clutching the bundle tightly to his chest, he tiptoed back into the hallway and gently nudged the door shut behind him. Fortunately, Laleh and Amina were still in their rooms. He exited the rear of the house and walked to the carport,
