Layover in Dubai

Nanette frowned.

“Ever heard of the Cyclone?” she asked.

“Vaguely. Some nightclub in Dubai?”

“A brothel bar, in the local parlance. Or used to be. There was a big write-up about it in Vanity Fair. The government was so embarrassed they raided the place. Loads of cops. And, as luck would have it, our Charlie was there. That wouldn’t have been so bad if he hadn’t started railing drunkenly at the police. He told so many of them to fuck off that they dragged him to the station, where he said some even more unpardonable things.”

“Like what?”

“Do you really need to ask that, Sam?” Gary said.

“It’s all right. He’s an auditor. It’s his nature to ask. It’s a good thing, Gary. One of the reasons you keep promoting him. What Charlie said was words to the effect of how Dubai was led by, and I’m quoting from the police report, ‘a bunch of towel-headed hypocrites, stupid killjoys who need to get their own house in order before they start policing everybody else’s.’”

“Oh.”

“Yes, ‘Oh.’ It all got back to the royal family, of course. To the supreme ruler for the emirate, Sheikh Mohammed. His dad, Sheikh Rashid, was the one who built the place up from nothing. Not exactly good for business to offend them, especially when we’re opening a new regional office there. If Charlie’s experience and contacts weren’t indispensable to our plans in that part of the world, we would just make Dubai off-limits. As it is, we have fences to mend, and with your help we can mend them. As you may know, Dubai is our most important transportation hub. The port at Jebel Ali handles everything we ship to points east, not to mention all the raw materials we receive in return. It’s also the biggest transshipment point for pharmaceutical counterfeits, and the government has finally agreed to let us start training their customs inspectors on how to crack down. So these are people we can’t afford to alienate, much less infuriate. As for Charlie, well, look at it this way. Your work just might save his career.”

Which is why, after a little more nudging from Nanette, Sam ultimately agreed to play along. Although he wished he hadn’t almost the moment Charlie and he landed, when Nanette, breaking a promise, phoned him for an update as he stood in the passport line. It was the first of three such calls she had made so far.

Charlie, at least, had softened the blow by dropping several hints that he knew the real reason they’d been paired. And up until an hour ago the man had been virtually trouble free, not to mention so companionable that Sam had finally turned off his phone while they were riding across town to the York, a small act of rebellion that he was already regretting now that Charlie had disappeared.

Sam checked his watch. Thirty-four minutes and counting. A few people were heading toward the exits. He decided he had better turn his special phone back on, just in case. He watched the screen come to life. Two messages from Nanette were waiting, but before he could check them the phone rang.

“You turned off your phone. Why?”

Nanette sounded furious. Sam calculated that it was nearly 7 p.m. in Manhattan. He imagined her seated by the window in her office on the fiftieth floor, bathed in the dusky light of early evening, her legs crossing with a dangerous hiss.

“I, uh, needed a recharge.”

“Bullshit. But we’ll deal with that later. Where’s Charlie?”

“The two of us are at the York Club. It’s—”

“A notorious fleshpot.” Same words Charlie had used. “How long have you been there?”

“Maybe an hour?”

“Damn it, Sam. And where, exactly, is Charlie?”

“He seems to have disappeared. Maybe fifteen minutes ago. Or closer to thirty-five, I guess.”

“With a whore?”

“Apparently.”

“Russian?”

“Maybe. I’m not sure.” Did she really know Charlie’s tastes that well? “If it’s any comfort, there aren’t any police.”

“You’ve dropped the ball, Sam. Dropped it and kicked it clear down the block into the gutter, along with your career and Charlie’s, too. I’ll take over.”

“But I could—”

She hung up.

He sighed, shut the phone, and swallowed hard. Then he glanced nervously down the darkened hallway. Still no Charlie. Someone announced from the bandstand that it was closing time. A collective groan went up from the women. One brushed past on his left, practically in tears. Sam could sympathize. He, too, would soon be answering to an angry pimp. He was in a hell of a mess, and he feared Charlie was in a bigger one.

Ten minutes passed as he nervously cooled his heels, glancing every few seconds toward the empty corridor. By then the York was half empty, with a knot of departing men and women clogging the exit. A sudden commotion drew his attention toward two beefy fellows in black T-shirts and tight sport coats who were bulldozing in against the flow. They burst into the clear, headed for the corridor, and disappeared into the gloom where Sam had last seen Charlie.

Sam decided to find out what was up, but he had taken only a few steps when a woman emerged from the shadows at top speed. It was Charlie’s whore, the one in blue sequins. She was wild-eyed and barefoot, and her dress was torn at the shoulder and wet across the front. Had gentle old Charlie done that? She recognized Sam and rushed toward him, tumbling into his arms—all musk and perfume. She blurted something unintelligible, then