“And you think he’ll rally the troops?” Keller said.
“Does he have any choice, seeing as how all the troops are here in town? Especially after what happened to the last fellow who decided to handle things on his own?”
Ali nodded.
“That part is plausible,” he said. “Even at 1 a.m., with kebabs rolling around my stomach. But what will the location be?”
“I was thinking you could provide one. A place with actual neighbors, so the watchers can blend in with the scenery.”
“Yes. I can arrange that.”
“We’ll have Mansour’s men wire the place, and we will stake it out from every angle. Every possible entry and exit, fully covered. Then, when all the players have arrived and had time to fully implicate themselves in the course of their debriefing, we’ll spring the trap.”
The only one who hadn’t spoken up yet was Laleh, and they turned to her now. She would have to play the most crucial role, and she didn’t look pleased.
“I suppose you want me to talk her into this,” she said.
“In the morning. After you’ve slept.”
“Well, I can already tell you that she won’t agree to it. Nor would I let her.”
“Oh, so it is up to you to decide for her now?”
“No. But it is her life that will be at risk. It’s one thing for you to do something stupid on your own. Quite another to ask someone else who won’t even know the real danger.”
“Oh, Laleh, come on. We’re talking about one person helping hundreds, maybe thousands. The greater good, Laleh!”
“It’s easy to say ‘one versus thousands’ unless you have to face the one.”
Sharaf sighed and regrouped.
“Right now, Laleh, even as we sit here, fifty girls just like Basma are locked inside cramped steel containers on the pitching deck of a ship at sea, probably vomiting their brains out. And you’re going to let that happen over and over again, just because the fate of a single young woman is in your hands? You’re the one who wanted to participate, Laleh. Well, participation comes with a cost, and the cost is responsibility. For Basma, yes. But also for those fifty young women, and however many more will keep coming if we fail.”
Laleh frowned and shook her head, almost a shudder. Sharaf hated pushing her, but it was a lesson she needed to learn. This was the hidden reality of the heady life in the arena. Remember this feeling well, my daughter, because the burden never lightens.
“I will ask her,” Laleh said. “But I won’t push. Write out your argument, and all your justifications. I will present it in your own words as you wish. But I won’t be an advocate, only a messenger.”
“Fair enough.”
It was settled, then. They discussed a few other arrangements and then went back to bed, where Sharaf supposed he might finally be able to sleep.
But he couldn’t, of course, not a wink, because now his plan seemed all too shaky, and riddled with holes. What if they didn’t take the bait? What if everyone didn’t show up? Or, worst of all, what if they simply sent an assassin to kill Basma? At this late date, who knew how they might really react, no matter what Liffey had said about contingencies?
Six hours later he was standing by the front window with a cup of coffee, stomach fluttering as he peeped through the blinds into the early-morning sunlight. Out by the curb, Laleh was climbing into a taxi. His girl, heading off on her mission to talk another poor girl into hers.
Shaky or not, it was all they had. The taxi pulled away from the curb. Their operation was under way.
27
Nanette Weaver lined up her supplies in front of the hotel mirror, a general preparing for battle. Arrayed before her were moisturizer, foundation, concealer, blush, shadow, eyeliner, and lipstick—all of it in demure little tubes, vials, and bottles, plus a chic mini-cube of molded Lucite.
Once, in a rare moment of budgetary curiosity, she had totted up the dollar value of this arsenal and had been mildly appalled by the result, especially once she added shampoos and conditioners. Despite the micro sizes necessary for travel, the damage had come to $271.
But excess in the defense of finesse was no vice, and today it was more important than ever that Nanette achieve just the right look. Because now was the time to take command, marshal the troops, set disarray back in order. Proper leadership was what they had been lacking, and at this crucial final hour she aimed to provide it.
A ruse lay in wait for them, of that she was certain. She had already foreseen its likely hazards, even when Assad hadn’t, and she had adjusted their plans accordingly. If she continued to have her way, then by day’s end the board might well be wiped clean of opposition.
As always, she would be relying more on wits, timing, and experience than on her makeup. But Nanette was the only woman in their dire little assembly. And her years of navigating the male channels of commerce had taught her that words and actions, no matter how compelling, were never enough. When a woman was presiding, men were just as likely to be swayed by a significant glance, a narrowed eye, even a flash of ankle. Or, in this part of the world, practically anything to do with hair, the very beacon of Islamic sexuality.
She applied moisturizer first. A dab and a swirl, then another. Clinique, as standard for the job as an AK-47 was for Third World insurrections. Next came the foundation, a pricey discovery from Saks called La Prairie Cellular Treatment. Imbued with sunblock, it was suited perfectly for Dubai, with shades calibrated by the number—3.4 for
