“You know how our hospitals are. The best that money can buy, but somehow never quite good enough when something bad happens. Why else would the royal family always seek treatment overseas anytime one of them sneezes?”
“The Iranian hospital isn’t so bad.”
“It’s first-rate. But considering some of the enemies you’ve made recently, well, I couldn’t be sure of your safety.”
“Ah, yes. Thank you.”
“You see? Your powers of judgment are still clouded. My personal physician predicted it. He is a German, trained in Boston, and he advises you to go slow for a while. I agree, of course. But I also have some advice.”
“And what would that be?”
“You must tell me where the American is. Assad is a lying fox, but I believe he knows something that you’ve been hiding from me.”
Sharaf had no way of knowing what the Minister might have heard or learned while he was unconscious, but as the fog continued to lift he tried to gauge what he might say without tripping himself up. Evasiveness was one approach, and his injury offered possible cover.
“What do you mean, sir? You’re confusing me.”
“Well, obviously no one has found him yet. But I’m guessing you have known all along where he is.”
“Look me in the eye, sir, because I am going to tell you the absolute truth.” To his surprise, the Minister actually leaned forward over the bed, gazing intently. “I haven’t the faintest idea where Mr. Keller might be. For all I know he might even have left the country.”
The beauty of it was that Sharaf hadn’t had to lie, not technically, which made his deception all the more convincing. He
“I believe you. Up to now, I’ll admit, I wasn’t so sure. But just now, looking you in the eye, man to man, I am convinced you are being honest with me. But where do you think he has gone? Surely you must have an opinion?”
“Honestly?”
“Of course.”
“I believe he is dead. Or will be soon. Either by the hand of his own people, or Assad’s.”
“And where does that leave your case?”
“It complicates it, of course. That would mean five murders so far, counting the woman in the desert and the two Russian thugs. And I still don’t know what the rest of them are up to.”
Unfortunately, Sharaf believed his dire assessment of Keller’s prospects might actually be true. Unless the young man had managed to cross the border or put to sea during the past few days, his hopes for survival were slim. It saddened him, because he liked the fellow. But perhaps Ali had been able to pull something together.
Thinking of Ali reminded Sharaf of all the work he needed to do—phone calls, contacts, follow-ups. Adding to his anxiety was the date Charlie Hatcher had scribbled into his black book, underlined twice—“Monday, 4/14!” It had taken on the feel of a deadline, a point of no return, and now it was Saturday the 12th. Only two days left.
A rough list of tasks began taking shape in his head, and Sharaf experienced a palpable sensation of his mind snapping back into place, like a dislocated shoulder into its socket. His head seemed to be clearing by the second. Or so he thought until he tried to get out of bed. Immediately wobbly, he sat on the edge while he waited for the skewed room to go level.
“Sharaf, please!”
The Minister reached out to steady him, although his touch was tentative, uncertain. You could sense he dreaded the idea of having to pick Sharaf up off the floor. As generous as the man had been so far, he obviously drew the line at physical contact. Maybe he saw Sharaf’s ilk—a cop on a beat, when you got down to it—as beneath him. A subcaste of manual laborer, practically untouchable. Or maybe Sharaf was just dizzy.
He collected his wits as best he could and turned his attention to immediate priorities. First he would call Amina and Laleh. Then Ali, for a discreet update on Keller, provided one was available.
“I need to use your phone.”
“Your own phone is here.” He gestured toward the nightstand. “The prison gave me your belongings. The police said your car has been returned to your home.”
Sharaf’s phone was in a tidy pile along with his keys and wallet. His police uniform, which he had been wearing when he was arrested at the Seaman’s Majlis, was folded neatly on a console table at the foot of the bed. His boots were on the floor below.
He reached slowly for the phone, trying not to set off a new round of spinning. In doing so he realized that a folded sheet of paper was poking from the edge of his wallet. Someone had stuffed it in there with his cash. His curiosity got the best of him, and he took it out.
It was a handwritten note. He read it while the Minister watched with apparent interest.
“What is it, Sharaf?”
“A grocery list, from Amina. I’d forgotten it was there.”
He waved it quickly so the Minister wouldn’t see the writing, then folded it away before the lie became apparent. It was actually an address, scribbled in pencil. A location in Deira, just across the creek from where he had grown up. Below it was a message: “After we saw what happened to you, Khalifa and I decided you must be telling the truth. Good luck, inshallah. Nabil.”
“Inshallah” was underlined twice, a parting joke from Nabil, who must have bribed a guard to put the note with
