Layover in Dubai

“I agree.”

Sam was dumbfounded. Then his auditor’s brain began to assemble the pieces, and he smiled as they fell into place. Death, he decided, was going to be a pretty good thing.

21

“So that’s why you were soaking my clothes in a tub,” Sam said, after they dropped Laleh off. “And I’m guessing the tub is filled with, what, salt water?”

“Very good. But how did you know about the tub?”

“I saw it when Assad’s men came for me. I was out back looking for my wallet and spotted it through the window of the shed. But won’t you also need a body?”

“Mansour has one. It was found this morning. Some poor drunken unidentified tourist who fell off an abra into the creek five days ago. He was apparently traveling alone, with no friends and no next of kin. And now, as far as the government of Dubai is concerned, he is Sam Keller. I saw an item about him in the paper the first morning you were at our house. His body was still missing then. Witnesses had seen him slip into the water, but no one knew him and no one had come forward to report him missing. That’s when I took your clothes, pulled out the tub, and phoned Mansour.”

“And he agreed?”

“Spending a year together dodging sharks and the Indian coast guard tends to make you allies for life, just as with Ali. I knew Mansour would have jurisdiction whenever the creek finally decided to give back that poor fellow’s body.”

Sam shook his head, amazed by the audacity.

“It is called wasta, Mr. Keller, and it is how we do things here. I suppose to you it looks like corruption. To us it is a marketplace of favors and connections. Are things really so different in your world?”

“It’s just that, well, it sounds like something your father might have dreamed up. No disrespect intended.”

“None taken. I am quite aware of my inborn tendency for deviousness. That is why I am so committed to employing it for the greater good.”

“I’m not complaining. So what will they do, dress the body in my clothes?”

“I am sure it is too bloated and nibbled for that.” Sam winced. “Mansour’s men will throw away the real clothes and put yours in the property bag, along with your soggy passport and wallet.”

“What about dental records?”

“That will not be a concern until the American consulate ships the body home, which won’t happen for days, maybe weeks.”

“Hal Liffey will be the first one to see the paperwork. He and Nanette will probably have a drink to celebrate.”

“You are the one who should celebrate. No more looking over your shoulder for a Russian with a Makarov. Which is more than I can say for the poor man we’re about to visit. Rajpal Patel, the doorman from the Palace Hotel. He is hiding in Deira, on the far side of the creek.”

“Then shouldn’t we be heading south, to cross the bridge?”

Sharaf shook his head.

“By now Lieutenant Assad’s men may be looking for this car as well. We’ll park in the old quarter of Bastakiya, and make the crossing by abra.”

“Just like the dead tourist.”

“Only with better results, I hope.”

The waterfront in Bastakiya, the oldest part of the city, swarmed with activity, making it the perfect place to blend in with the crowd. Abras came and went from the docks like a procession of airport taxis, jostling to and fro in the cloudy green chop as their big diesel engines popped and grumbled like Harleys. They were low-slung, narrow craft, built of thick wooden beams the size and color of railroad ties. Passengers sat on a two-sided bench that ran down the spine of the open deck, facing outward, ten to a side. You paid the mate a dirham and stepped aboard the rocking deck. As soon as every seat was filled, the skipper revved the engine in a billow of blue smoke and pulled away, bumping the scuffed hulls of other abras until he reached open water.

Sam made a move to hop aboard the newest arrival, but Sharaf put out a hand.

“I am looking for someone,” he said. “Patience.”

Three boats later, Sharaf muttered, “Okay,” and they climbed aboard. This boat didn’t look any different from the others, but the skipper nodded toward Sharaf as they eased into the channel. Glancing around him, Sam realized the obvious advantage of this form of transport. You got a good long look at every fellow passenger, meaning no one could follow without being noticed. It was clear that no Russians were aboard.

The abra headed downstream with the incoming tide, taking them alongside the bigger dhows that still carried spices and textiles across the gulf from Iran. They, too, had timbered hulls, with jutting bowsprits and flush transoms that lent a piratical air. Despite the new high-rises lining much of the opposite shore, it wasn’t hard to imagine how the creek must have looked when Sharaf was a boy, barefoot and wiry. These waters ran straight from his heart, a key to everything about him, and Sam watched the man closely as they made the crossing.

When they reached the busy wharf in Deira, Sharaf again held out his arm in abeyance as the other passengers stepped ashore. The skipper nodded, and steered the abra back into the current. A few minutes later they pulled alongside a separate wharf that wasn’t part of the usual taxi service.