Layover in Dubai

them as well.

“Won’t there be people at Sonapur who would want to turn him in?” she asked.

“Not likely,” Ali said, glancing at her reflection in the mirror. “They’re too busy and too tired. And none of them are local. They’re from India, Pakistan, Bangladesh. Besides, Mr. Keller will have far more to worry about than exposure, I am sorry to say.”

“They aren’t big on safety rules, huh?” Sam asked.

“Just be glad it is not summer, when a building slab is like a skillet. Still, on balance it is much safer than leaving you at the mercy of Lieutenant Assad.”

Ali exited onto a potholed two-lane road clogged with trucks and buses. They made their way slowly toward a smudge of low-slung buildings on the near horizon and turned onto a rutted dirt lane. A thunderstorm had recently passed, one of those cloudbursts that never seemed to reach Dubai’s coastline. Craters as big as compact cars were filled with water, and the whole area stank of mud and raw sewage.

They were surrounded now by complexes of grimy buildings, two and three stories high. Each looked like a cheap motel, with rows of doorways along breezeways. Brightly colored laundry hung from the railings. Some rooms had windows, and most were mounted with air-conditioning units. Other rooms had neither. The complexes were separated by iron fencing and low plaster walls. Each had an entrance gate that displayed the name of a contracting firm. Buses were unloading workers from the day shift. Weary-looking men in jumpsuits shuffled toward their dormitories. The only other vehicles in sight were the lumbering “honey wagons,” tanker trucks that worked around the clock to pump out septic tanks.

Sam could already tell from the preponderance of dark faces that he wasn’t exactly going to blend in with the crowd.

“I’m going to stick out like a sore thumb.”

“In here, yes. Although at least you’re on the darker side of Caucasian. That will help. So will a beard. But the more important thing is that the moment you put on your uniform and leave these gates you will become invisible. In Dubai these workers are everywhere and nowhere. No one sees them, because no one wants to. You must trust me on this. It has worked before, even with someone whiter than you. What is it they say in your country? ‘Hidden in plain sight.’ Here we are.”

Ali parked the car next to a whitewashed plaster wall, which was spattered a rusty brown by hundreds of spittings of paan, the local chewing tobacco. A cinder-block hut sat next to an entrance gate, where a security man stood guard with a holstered weapon. The sign out front said the site belonged to the Al Mumtaz Engineering Co.

“Free room and board?” Sam asked.

“Rooms, yes, but the meals will be up to you. Laleh, give him the envelope.”

She handed it across the seat.

“Three hundred dirhams,” Ali said. About eighty bucks. “Keep it with you at all times. If you need more, tell the foreman. His name is Zafar. You will meet him shortly. He is your link to me. He will always know how to reach me, but don’t mention my name around the others. It is best if you do not contact me at all. As soon as it is safe for you on the outside, I will come for you myself. Don’t leave with anyone else. Understand?”

“Yes.”

Ali turned toward Laleh.

“I am taking him inside. You must not leave the car under any circumstances, and you must not open the window. Even in an abaya, your presence here would be a provocation.”

He turned back toward Sam.

“Come with me to the blockhouse. There will be some papers to sign.”

“Good-bye, Sam,” Laleh said.

“Good-bye,” he said, glancing back at her. Just as Ali was climbing out the door she furtively thrust forward her right hand with a small square of folded paper. She nodded quickly, as if to say, “Please, take it before he sees us.” So Sam snatched it away and nodded in reply. More forbidden behavior, he supposed, which made the gesture all the more touching. He stuck the paper in his pocket so Ali wouldn’t see it, and then opened his door to follow.

“Good luck,” she whispered.

Ali led the way through the front door of the blockhouse. The white billow of his kandoura looked out of place among the mud and the disheveled, wiry laborers, a white bloom of prosperity in a scrap yard of weeds.

Inside, another armed security man eyed them suspiciously. A dark middle-aged man in a wrinkled gray shirt stood up from behind a steel desk littered with paperwork.

“Ali.”

It was a professional greeting. No smiles, handshakes, or hands on the heart. Ali nodded in return and said, “This is Zafar, the foreman. He will look after you.”

Zafar didn’t seem like the type who looked after anyone, except to ensure they gave him a full day of labor. He walked over from the desk, sizing up Sam from head to toe. Spreading a thumb and forefinger like calipers, he clamped them around Sam’s jaw, turning his head one way and then another.

“It is good you not shave,” Zafar said, releasing Sam’s bristly jaw. “Black hair. Brown eyes. These good also. Grow beard. Right now, too white. Too many will stare. Speak only when you must. Only few on your crew speak English.”

“How will I know what they’re telling me to do?”

“You watch. Do what others do. Very easy. You will see.”

He returned to his desk, where he motioned Ali toward a small pile of documents on a front corner. Ali handed a pen to Sam. All the writing was in Arabic.