Layover in Dubai

“I was pretty much out of it the whole time.”

“Yes, that was her story as well.”

Sam didn’t belabor the point, and neither man said a word as they exited the mall from a corridor in India.

The father-daughter reunion wasn’t exactly warm and fuzzy. Sharaf called out gruffly to Laleh as he approached the car. She was seated at the wheel, her arm resting on the window frame.

“Here, take this and put it on.”

It was an abaya he must have procured somewhere along the way. He was speaking English, as if to make sure Sam understood as well that he was restoring order to this world gone mad.

“Now hand me your keys. Mr. Keller and I need your car. I am going to drop you at the taxi stand, over there with the tourists. If you need transportation for the rest of the day you can use my Camry. Ali had it delivered to the house. But I suggest that first you had better make peace with your mother, assuming that is even possible after what you have done. Not that I don’t appreciate the valuable service that you’ve rendered.”

Laleh didn’t budge.

“And good morning to you, too, sir.” She, too, spoke pointedly in English. Sam felt awkwardly like he was witnessing a formal debate, and that he would soon be consulted for his judgment on the winner. “I’m gratified to see you’re okay, but this is my car owned in my name, and I am driving. Please sit in the back. Or up front, unless it makes you uncomfortable sitting next to a woman driver.”

“Laleh, this isn’t a game.” He glanced around the parking lot, as if nervous about remaining exposed. “I don’t let women drive me around. Not your mother, and not you, especially not after your behavior last night. It’s as simple as that.”

“You do when it’s not your car. Please, get in before someone sees you.”

“I paid for this car, Laleh. And I’m losing patience.”

He reached for the handle, but Laleh was quicker, shooting the lock and rolling up the window. Sam, trying to stay out of the line of fire, crossed to the opposite side and got into the back. He buckled up and braced for the collision.

Sharaf, cursing under his breath, walked stiffly around the front of the car. He slapped the hood sharply with his palm and made his way to the passenger door. Laleh unlatched it, and Sharaf threw it open. He paused briefly, as if deciding whether he could really endure this. Then his policeman’s need for safety prevailed, and he slid into the seat, slammed the door, and gazed straight ahead, jaw rigid.

Interesting strategy, Sam thought. Apparently Laleh had concluded that the best defense was a good offense, and she had seized the initiative in the battle of wills. Whatever sanctions her parents had in mind, it was obvious that in Laleh’s mind the game had changed forever, and henceforth she would press for every possible advantage. He was impressed.

“Buckle up, please,” Laleh said. “You know how terrible the drivers are here.”

Sam watched the skin above Sharaf’s collar turn a deep red, but the man didn’t say a word. Considering the trouble Laleh was already in, Sam wondered what her new curfew would be now. Sunset, probably, with no television and no Internet. Or maybe her father would simply dispatch her to some secluded finishing school for naughty young Islamic ladies.

“Where to?” Laleh asked, continuing to address her father in English.

Sharaf emitted a deep, guttural sigh but said nothing. He turned to gaze forlornly into the parking lot.

“All right, then,” Laleh said brightly. “I’ll head east, since there really isn’t anything much to the west except Jebel Ali. Just grunt when you want me to turn.”

The skin above Sharaf’s collar was now livid.

Laleh pulled the BMW into the eastbound lanes of Sheikh Zayed Road and floored it, expressing her anger with the gas pedal as the acceleration pushed Sam deeper into his seat. When she hit 120 kilometers per hour—about 75 miles per hour—there was a loud, high ping, and then a mechanical voice spoke up from the dashboard: “You are speeding. Please slow down. Ping. You are speeding. Please slow down.”

“Most people have that disconnected,” Laleh said to Sam. “My father did in his car, and my mother did in hers. But of course in my car they would not permit me. So there you go. Just like in a taxi.”

Her tone was controlled, but her foot pressed harder on the pedal, and the voice kept issuing its warning.

“Nice, isn’t it?” she said brightly. “Especially when you’re running late for an appointment and everybody else is flying past you anyway. Not that any of my appointments really matter.”

Sam cleared his throat.

“All right,” Sharaf said, breaking his silence. His voice was surprisingly under control. “You’ve made your point. But before I say anything more, you have to slow down. There is no hurry.”

Laleh eased up immediately, having won the first round. Sam wouldn’t have thought it was possible.

“But just what is your point, Laleh? That is one thing I would like to know. Are you simply trying to impress your friend here?”

“I’m doing it because, one, you need to see firsthand, here and now, that I am a thinking, resourceful person who, occasionally, can actually make judgments for herself. Two, that I’m scared for you, for both of you. And I figured the only way I’d have a chance to talk some sense into you was if I, well, sort of kidnapped you for a while, or at least got to drive you around. I’ve seen the precautions you’re taking, the risks you’re willing to endure, and the damage that both of you have already suffered. And, yes, Father, I’ve even heard you on the phone late at night, talking to the Minister about how terrible this might all be. If you want real privacy you should go outdoors, or better still, let me go outdoors. So I guess what I’m really saying after this awful and exhausting night is that I don’t want you to risk your life over some stupid investigation. You’re not just a detective, you’re a father and a husband, and Sam here is a young man who, with any luck, will also be a father and a husband. So maybe you should both reconsider.”