“Fifty women,” Sam said, “and they’ll be arriving like livestock in two days. We better move fast.”
22
Among the high-wattage villas of Dubai’s Al Safa neighborhood, the Beacon of Light stood out more like a guttering candle—three stories of smudged stucco on a shaggy lawn, with a dented blue van at the curb.
The neighbors’ bigger gripe was the procession of sullen men who regularly cruised past or, worse, parked in the rear alley, idling their engines with the windows up while waiting for runaway spouses to show their faces at the windows.
The shelter regularly employed a guard, but on this particular afternoon Sharaf was surprised to see two of them lurking beneath the drooping palms, and both were heavily armed. They shouldered automatic weapons like island defenders awaiting an amphibious assault. Sharaf heard the unmistakable click of a safety as Sam and he approached.
“Easy,” Sharaf called out, showing his hands. “We’re friends.”
He seemed to be saying that everywhere lately. “We’re expected,” Sam added.
A guard patted them down and escorted them up the steps. A woman of uncertain nationality answered their knock. Looming behind her was a third armed man.
“We have an appointment with Mrs. Halami,” Sharaf said.
“Wait here.”
On the way over from Deira, Sharaf had tried to prepare Sam for the local phenomenon known as Yvette Halami. She was a Frenchwoman who had married an Emirati and moved to Dubai during the early years of the economic boom. A converted Muslim, she covered her head but never held her tongue, especially on the issue of how women were treated in Dubai.
She chain-smoked, knocked back espressos all day, conducted much of her business in English, and was forever answering a cell phone that rattled and rang like one long emergency. Her combative nature generated like-minded press coverage. Depending on which local paper you read, she was either a selfless advocate for the voiceless or a grandstanding loudmouth whose main goal was to embarrass men in general, and Emirati men in particular. Several of Sharaf’s colleagues couldn’t utter her name without cursing.
Almost any native-born woman would have long ago faded into the background against that kind of opposition. She seemed to revel in it, which only infuriated her enemies more.
Sharaf had largely been won over to Yvette’s cause by Laleh, and also by the assault victims he had interviewed over the years at the shelter. He had seen firsthand what happened when violent husbands, unpunished, were allowed to reclaim their wives from the law simply by signing a form promising they’d never do it again. He knew of one man who had done this eight times; he had seen all eight copies of the form—but no criminal convictions—stored neatly in the fellow’s police file.
Sharaf was ambivalent about Halami herself. He believed she was one reason his daughter had become so rebellious. For every hour Laleh volunteered at the Beacon of Light—preparing meals, manning phones, directing media strategy—she seemed to emerge that much sharper around the edges.
Halami appeared from around a corner, cell phone in her left hand, cigarette in her right. Her greeting was typically abrupt. No names, no salutations, just a blunt question in a burst of cigarette smoke.
“Were you followed?”
“If we had been, we’d be in custody by now,” Sharaf answered. “What’s with all the security?”
“You wouldn’t ask if you’d seen some of the goons who’ve been coming around. And I’m not talking about husbands. Pimps and their muscle. A very bad business.”
“Does this have anything to do with—?”
“Please. Don’t mention her name here. Follow me.”
She led them past her office to a makeshift canteen, where one woman was reading and another was taking popcorn from a microwave. Halami spoke to them in Arabic, and they exited without a word. Then she lit a fresh cigarette and responded to a beep by checking a text on her phone.
“Some flunky from the Ministry of Health was in my office yesterday asking about the same girl. Immigration came the day before that. Same name. Basma, Basma, Basma.” She moved her right hand like a yakking puppet. “For all I know, one or both of those fellows planted something near my desk to listen in, so I figured it was safer talking here. Any idea who’s behind all this interest?”
The heads of both agencies were allies of Assad’s, and rivals of the Minister, but Sharaf didn’t want to get bogged down in politics.
“The same people who are making life miserable for us, I’d imagine.”
“You know, it’s a good thing you mentioned Charlie Hatcher, or I’d have suspected you were one of them.” She gestured toward Sam. “Who’s this one?”
Sam answered for himself.
“Sam Keller. I was a friend of Charlie’s.”
“I am sorry for your loss. Charlie was our friend. Why are you dressed like that?”
Sam looked to Sharaf for help.
“The same reason I’m out of uniform. Let’s just say that we’ve had an interesting few days. Where is Basma?”
Halami’s phone rang. She answered instantly, ignoring them.
“Yes? Of course, but where? Ethiopia is my guess. They’re from villages on the brink of starvation. Someone puts up an Emirates Air poster with a nice photo of Dubai, and all you have to do is offer a plane ticket. An easy
