“Except here the stakes are higher,” Sharaf said, with no hint of irony. “Just a few months ago at the Wafi Mall a gang of Serbian thieves drove two Audis through the entrance and smashed their way into a Graff jewelry store. In ninety seconds they stole thirteen million dollars’ worth of loot, then drove back out, right past the fake Egyptian temple and all the shoppers eating ice cream. Here at the Burjuman there are forty different merchants selling high-end jewelry, including Tiffany and Cartier. Extravagant goods call for extravagant protection.”
Sam scanned the screens. Impressive names leaped out from the storefronts—Saks. Chanel. Dior. Versace. Dunkin’ Donuts?
The shoppers were nothing special. Shorts and beach clothes, plenty of blue jeans. Only rarely did he glimpse someone in traditional local dress—the men in white
“Weird,” he said, the word slipping out.
“What is?”
“There are hardly any Emiratis. They almost look out of place.”
“Now you see why it is not one of my favorites. That is why I wore these Western clothes. To fit in, if I have to. I feel like a tourist here. That, plus all the damned Russians, the mob types in particular.”
“This is their hangout?”
“One of Anatoly Rybakov’s, anyway. A local chieftain. People call him the Tsar.”
“I’d have thought he’d prefer Emirates Mall, the one with the ski slope.”
“Russians who come to Dubai have had quite enough of snow and ice. If Rybakov gets homesick he can always turn up the air conditioner and drink a liter of vodka. But it’s mostly their wives and daughters who come here. There. Screen twelve. Look at her. Zoom in, please.”
The security man nodded, typed a command on his laptop, and maneuvered a joystick. The image closed in on a sturdy Russian woman, middle-aged, with rouged cheeks. She stood outside Louis Vuitton. Her bleached hair was piled into a bun, which served as a perch for jeweled designer sunglasses. Tight slacks, fire-engine red, were matched by a bulging spandex top, which was draped by a clingy white cardigan she had buttoned to just below her massive cleavage. She puffed forcefully on a cigarette, inhaling greedily, as if she stood to win a million rubles if she could finish within a minute.
Alongside her was a formidable old babushka in a scarf and peasant garb, strictly Old Country, and shaped like one of those Matroyshka nesting dolls—the big one that all the little ones would fit into. Maybe they were in there now, squirming to get out.
“The younger one is Rybakov’s wife,” Sharaf said. “I am guessing that’s one reason he chose this place. Give her a night of shopping while he takes care of business.”
“So the Russians picked the place?”
“They usually do.”
“And the Iranians don’t mind?”
“They are outnumbered here. Or outgunned, anyway. The Indian mob, now that would be another matter. As for the Iranians, when your people have been here for four hundred years as traders and smugglers, you don’t get too worked up about little things like who picks the meeting place, as long as you are still making money.”
The woman on screen 12 was on the move.
“Follow her,” Sharaf said. The security man nodded and moved the joystick. The camera panned left, tracking her progress, which was hobbled somewhat by the slow-moving babushka.
“She’ll appear next on thirteen,” the security man said.
They followed her across three more screens until she approached a man sitting on a bench. She opened her Louis Vuitton bag to show him the fruits of her labors. He nodded, neither smiling nor frowning. Then he stood. He was compact and deeply tanned, with bristly gray hair trimmed close to the scalp. Black jacket, black slacks, shiny black shirt, with the top two buttons undone to reveal silver chest hair and a thin gold chain. Two younger, bigger men reared up behind him, peeking over his shoulder into the shopping bag as if it might be carrying a bomb.
“That’s Anatoly Rybakov. Recognize any of the muscle?”
“No. Sorry.”
“Do you have sound?”
The security man nodded and clicked a mouse. A garble of Russian and ambient noise burst from a nearby speaker, muffled by the raindrop crackle of a fountain.
“Will the audio be clearer in a restaurant?”
The security man nodded firmly, a man certain in his judgments.
The wife and the babushka headed off for more shopping, while Rybakov chatted with his bodyguards.
“Is this how he always operates?” Sam asked. “‘Hi, I’m a Russian thug, let’s chat?’”
“Officially he is the regional executive for RusSiberian Metals and Investment. Their specialties are Russian commodities and real estate development.”
“Is any of it legit?”
“The commodities were all looted at subsidy prices. The real estate is for laundering money. Yet another reason you see so much construction here.”
Rybakov and his bodyguards began walking. They stepped aboard a rising escalator.
“Stay with him,” Sharaf said.
“He’ll be coming up next on one-thirty-seven,” the security man said. “Center panel.”
