Layover in Dubai

“Intercept their delivery, obviously,” Sharaf said.

“But that won’t shut down their pipeline. The only way to do that is to round up the main players.”

“Can’t you just arrest them?” Sam asked.

“Only if they show up for pickup and delivery of the goods, which I very much doubt will happen. As long as Assad has ministerial support, they will remain untouchable unless we can establish a tangible link. You heard the recording, Mr. Keller. Even Liffey can probably wiggle out of it with a good lawyer. We need to catch the five of them in the act, preferably all at once.”

“And how do we do that?”

Sharaf had been wondering the same thing all day.

“Obviously I don’t know yet. We need time to think.”

“Better think fast,” Sam answered. “Charlie’s day of reckoning begins in about three hours.”

25

Sam had his doubts about their so-called safe house.

For one thing, it was the only apartment in the entire complex with any lights on. Even with the blinds drawn, it stood out like a neon tube in a tunnel of desert darkness. Then there were the two vans from the Maritime Police parked out front—the only vehicles on the newly paved grid of roads—plus the skiff in the canal out back, tethered to the wharf with its running lights burning. To Sam they were an open secret begging for further scrutiny, guaranteed to attract the curiosity of any passerby.

But as Sharaf and Ali had already pointed out, there weren’t any passersby, and at this late hour the location was too remote to attract anyone but drag racers and vagabonds. Beat cops apparently never approached within a mile, and there were certainly no neighbors to raise an alarm.

Mansour had provided a bit of good news. Shipping records showed that the IMO number 9016742 belonged to a container ship called the Global Star. It was indeed due to arrive at Jebel Ali the next day, but not until 9 p.m., which bought them some extra time. Not that Sharaf had yet come up with any ideas. And for the moment he had other things on his mind as he opened the empty refrigerator in the model kitchen.

“I’m hungry,” he said. “I should have packed some of Halami’s free food in a bag while I was thinking.”

Ali, who had just arrived from the city, smiled and placed a greasy paper bag on the kitchen counter. He unrolled the top and bowed grandly, like a headwaiter serving filet mignon. The aroma of grilled meat filled the kitchen.

“Lamb kebabs, Anwar. From the take-out window of Special Ostadi Restaurant in Bur Dubai, your favorite. And, no, I did not forget the yogurt sauce, the bread, or the spices. Maybe it will sharpen your thinking. Yours, too, of course, Mr. Keller.”

Laleh had already gone to bed, heading off sleepily to the far end of the condo. The unit had been built with locals in mind, meaning its four bedrooms were divided between two wings to allow extra privacy for females.

Sharaf piled meat, yogurt, and greens onto a warm curl of flatbread. He was opening wide for his first sloppy bite when Ali produced a second surprise.

“Fresh clothes for all of you. I couldn’t have done it without your wife’s help, Anwar, especially now that the weasel Assad has placed a patrol car outside your compound. Amina told me to climb in over the back wall. She met me at the back door of Rahim’s house. She had taken the whole load over there in steamer pots and casserole dishes, making it look like she was delivering him dinner. She is a clever woman, your Amina. But I have to say, Anwar, she is very angry with you. With all three of you.”

“‘Hell to pay,’ isn’t that what Americans say?” Sharaf said, pausing gloomily between bites.

Sam sorted through the new wardrobe. A New York Knicks T-shirt, supposedly for him, plus baggy jeans, which, like the clothes in the previous batch, were a little too large. At least he still had his suit jacket, dirty or not. For Sharaf there was a freshly laundered kandoura, which looked as comfy as pajamas. Maybe it would be better to just go native.

Sharaf dug past his own clothes. He frowned as he reached the bottom of the pile.

“Look at this,” he said disdainfully, holding aloft a flimsy pair of red spiked heels. He used only his fingertips, as if he had just tweezered something disgusting from a clogged drain.

“High heels?” Sam asked, wondering what all the fuss was about.

“Laleh’s. The most scandalous pair she owns. Practically indecent. Amina knows I hate them. She hates them. Sending these over here is a deliberate provocation.”

“Hold your fire, Anwar. She told me to also give you this.” Ali set down Crime and Punishment and a half-quart bottle of camel’s milk, beaded with moisture. The wrinkles eased on Sharaf’s troubled brow. Ali picked up the book for a second look.

“Some title,” he said. “Maybe she is warning you.”

“No,” Sharaf said. “This is good. Her way of saying she might even forgive me. Or maybe she is just wishing us luck. God willing, we’ll need it. Mr. Keller, where’s that recorder? We had better listen to the rest of it while we eat. I’ll translate.”

They put it on the table and flipped the switch. To Sam it was all babble. Liffey and the two nameless Mafia lieutenants—he wondered if one of them might even be the unlucky Arzhanov—were speaking rapid-fire Russian. At first Sharaf didn’t seem impressed.

“Generalities,” he said, waving dismissively. “Everything vague and careful, all of it useless for our purposes. Your Mr. Liffey speaks very good Russian, I will say that. The Persian as well. Probably why he was chosen for this meeting, an act of deference to the Tsar.”

The voices droned on, pausing only when the waitress stopped to take orders for a fresh round of drinks.