recruitment. Sure. Keep me posted.”
No sooner had she hung up than the phone rang again.
“Yes? Where? Good, very good.” She laughed with relish. “Another one bites the dust. We should have a party. Good. Later, then.”
She hung up. Sharaf was getting annoyed.
“Could you maybe shut that damn thing off for a minute?”
“No. They are my clients, Anwar. You’re just a cop, even though your daughter is one of the world’s great human beings, spoiled or not.”
“What can you tell me about Basma?”
“Our Jeanne d’Arc, you mean, if you will pardon the Christian metaphor. Sometimes I am more French than Muslim.”
“I noticed. Why a martyr? Is she dead?”
“Alive, but only by her own wits. I will leave it to Basma to answer your other question. Where did you hear her name? I doubt Charlie would have told you.”
Sam spoke up.
“It was in Charlie’s datebook, with a number for this place. She was listed next to Tatiana Tereshkova.”
“Another of our contacts from the trade. But I am worried about her, too. I can’t seem to find her.”
“Found, I’m afraid,” Sharaf said. “Several days ago.”
Halami lowered her cigarette.
“Dead?”
“She’d been shot. They dumped her in the desert.”
He said it more harshly than necessary, the very stereotype of the uncaring cop, and he felt bad about it as soon as he saw Halami’s reaction. She put a hand to her mouth and emitted a small cry, blinking twice. Her phone beeped, but she didn’t even glance at it.
“It’s where they take all of them,” she said quietly. “They just throw them on the ground and leave them for the birds. Tatiana was one of the Russian originals, from those Aeroflot caravans in the early nineties. Worked her way up through the system, then got disgusted with it. She was the reason Basma got away, she and Charlie. I suppose someone found out.”
“She was with Hatcher when he was shot.”
“Oh, dear. I didn’t know.”
“Hardly anyone does. And I doubt you will read about her in the papers anytime soon, not if some of my colleagues have their way.”
“Which is why I cannot trust you with the knowledge of Basma’s whereabouts. Not if they are after you as well.”
“Then I suppose we will never find out who killed Tatiana.”
She eyed them carefully.
“Charlie was the only man Basma trusted. Ever since he was killed she has been certain she will be next. That’s why we are hiding her. But she will not speak to any man. It’s a fact. You will have to deal with it.”
“We’re operating under a deadline. Finding a suitable female officer will not be as easy as you think.”
Halami smiled ruefully and flicked ashes into a Styrofoam cup.
“You know, Anwar, for such an intelligent man, you are sometimes a bumbling oaf. Because we both know of a woman who is not only suitable but is also readily available, and someone I trust.”
Sharaf saw where she was headed, and moved to cut her off.
“That is not an option. Laleh does not participate in my business.”
“More’s the pity. She is brilliant and compassionate—the very combination necessary to induce Basma to tell her story. You say she is not an option? Sir, she is your
Sharaf was exasperated. First Laleh, now Halami—both of them ordering him around, and taking events well beyond his control. Fine, let them. Why not just walk out of this place while his pride was intact? With the Minister’s help, he might still organize a team to raid Monday’s delivery at Jebel Ali.
The problem with that approach was that the scheme’s principals—Assad, the mobsters, the American woman—would be able to scramble right out of the net. He only had Liffey on tape, and even what he had heard of that conversation was vague enough for Liffey to argue that he was talking about some other commodity altogether, and with another bribe it might even be convincing to a judge. Sharaf still needed to dive deeper.
The other problem, greater yet, was that Halami was right. It was midafternoon Saturday. Delivery was Monday. There was no time for other options. Laleh was the perfect choice. The cop in him knew this, even as the father continued to shut his eyes and shake his head.
He was jolted from thought by the sound of loud pounding on the shelter’s front entrance. Halami moved to a window and flicked back a curtain, frowning. Then a woman poked her head into the canteen from the hallway.
“It’s the police,” she said. “A Lieutenant Assad. He says it is urgent.”
Halami glanced at Sharaf in alarm, and with a hint of mistrust.
