Patel then tilted his head as if searching his memory. His next words emerged in a monotone, like a student reciting important dates in history.
“Payload of fifty, I-M-O, nine-zero-one-six-seven-four-two. Jebel Ali terminal two, gate six, lot seventeen, row four.”
The recitation complete, Patel looked back at their faces.
“That is all. That is what I told him.”
“Of course,” Sharaf said. “An IMO number. They’re assigned to container ships.”
“And this one’s arriving Monday at Jebel Ali,” Sam said, “with a payload of fifty.”
Finally, Charlie’s scribbled numbers and letters made perfect sense. No code at all. Just a lot of shipping information in abbreviated form.
“But fifty what?” Sam asked. “Tons? Kilos? Weapons?”
“Women,” Sharaf said. “For the flesh trade. Their new pipeline, now that the airport’s under a crackdown.”
“In ship containers?”
“Someone smuggled in a few boys that way for use as camel jockeys last year, back when the government was shutting down that trade. Maybe that’s where they got the idea. The other numbers must be where the containers will be stored after unloading. In some freight lot at terminal two.”
Sharaf turned back toward Patel.
“Thank you, Mr. Patel. But where did that information come from?”
“From the recording.”
“What kind of recording?”
“The tape. Of those people who met in the Kasbar a month ago. I can explain, if you wish.”
“Oh, yes. We wish.”
So Patel told them all he could remember, which was considerable. His account dated back to a slow evening at the Kasbar three months earlier, when Charlie Hatcher had first appeared at the roped-off entrance. He had approached Patel with a conspiratorial grin and a folded hundred-dollar bill, and as Patel related the details Sam could almost hear his old colleague’s voice supplying the dialogue along the way, right down to the offhand language Charlie would have used to pitch his diabolical offer:
“Name’s Charlie Hatcher, old son. I’m with Pfluger Klaxon. Technically that allows me entry on our corporate membership, although I’m afraid you won’t find my name in your big red book. So this token of my appreciation will have to do instead, provided you’re free for a little conversation once I’ve settled in with a drink, yes?”
He handed over the bill. Patel pocketed the money and returned the smile.
“Of course, sir. As long as no one is needing my services for a few moments.”
“Absolutely, old son. Wouldn’t want to jeopardize your career in hospitality management.”
By the time Patel slid into the booth, Charlie was ready with a proposition.
“First off, I have some photos for you.”
He laid a sheet of paper faceup on the table with five Photostat images. Three were in color—one of a man with an American flag in the background, one of a woman with striking auburn hair, attractive in a stern sort of way, and one of a rather beefy man on a busy sidewalk. The other two, in black and white, seemed to have been copied from newspaper photos. One was captioned in Arabic, the other in the Cyrillic characters of Russian. Both were men, and one was a cop. No names had been typed in for any of the five.
“If it’s not too much trouble, I’d like for you to keep an eye out for these people, and make a note of whenever one of them visits. What time, how many in their party, plus the name used to make the reservation. You’d be generously compensated, of course. In addition, next time you get a spare moment I’d appreciate it if you could look back through your reservation book for, oh, let’s say six months, and let me know of any previous appointments made under the same name. Especially if that name matches one of these.”
Charlie slid forward an index card. Five names were typed in a neat column.
Patel frowned and fidgeted. Customers occasionally asked for his help in acquiring the temporary services of women, and he was always ready with a few leads. In one or two lucky instances he had later received a small percentage from the beneficiary. But this request seemed more serious, and much riskier.
“I am very sorry, sir, but the privacy interests of our guests require that—”
“Please, old son. Hear me out. I’d very,
Patel’s frown deepened. He rubbed his palms on his knees and glanced toward the entrance to make sure no one was awaiting entry. Then he leaned across the table and lowered his voice.
“I see your point, sir. Perhaps it would not be such a serious breach of our policies if I was to, as you say, participate as a consultant.”
“That’s the spirit. One more item, then, and we’re done.”
Charlie produced the transaction’s piece de resistance from a briefcase. It was a small blue ceramic bowl, virtually identical to the ones the Kasbar’s waitresses always brought to the table for their patrons, except Charlie’s wasn’t filled with the requisite helping of pistachios and smoked almonds. Moving as deftly as a magician, Charlie turned the bowl upside down just long enough to reveal a small silver item implanted in the bowl’s recessed bottom.
