Layover in Dubai Page 11

  Before Sam could answer, Sharaf looked in his rearview mirror and reacted immediately.

  “Shit!” he said. “Exactly what I didn’t need.”

  “What?” Keller asked, as he struggled to sit up. “The police?” If so, he was doomed.

  “Worse,” Sharaf said. “My son Salim. And it’s obvious that he wants something.”

  9

  Sam, still catching his breath after the false alarm, stood in the foyer of Sharaf’s house while the detective rushed back outside to deal with his son. A family crisis, by the sound of it. The two men were shouting in Arabic, each interrupting the other.

  A young woman appeared suddenly from the next room.

  “What’s all the commotion? And who are you?”

  She was roughly his age, and quite attractive—Sharaf’s daughter? Her intense brown eyes threw him off balance. So did her clothes, a smart and sexy skirt-and-blouse ensemble that she might have picked up yesterday in Manhattan. Hardly what he would have guessed an Emirati female to be wearing.

  He also hadn’t expected Sharaf, a mere police lieutenant, to be living in this kind of style and comfort. What he had already seen of the house was well maintained and tastefully appointed. And part of a family compound, no less, a prosperous-looking assemblage of four manicured lots behind a high stucco wall. Salim’s house, if anything, had looked grander than this one.

  “Well, what are you staring at?”

  “Sorry. I didn’t know anyone was home.”

  “Who are you? Did my father bring you?”

  “He did. I’m Sam. Sam Keller.”

  “I am Laleh.”

  He held out his hand for a shake and immediately realized it was probably taboo for her to touch him. Unfazed, she took his hand anyway, a warm, fleeting grip. Her eyes conveyed the rest of the greeting. They were full of questions, and his inclination was to answer them all, come what may.

  She had emerged from just around the corner, as if she had been waiting there since hearing the arrival of her father’s car. She’d probably heard the door shut when he went back out, and Sam’s impression was of a careful—even sneaky—listener, someone accustomed to operating on the edges of propriety. Already she had glanced twice toward the door, as if prepared to vanish the moment Sharaf reappeared.

  Sam wondered what she must make of him in his current disheveled state—sweaty and unshaven, shirttail out, suit coat slung over his shoulder. His clothes were dusty from his long spell on the floor of the Camry. She probably thought he was some disreputable source from the world of crime.

  “Come have a seat,” she said. “There’s no telling how long they’ll go on like that. And my father isn’t much for social graces. Or are you not a social caller?”

  He wasn’t sure what Sharaf would want him to say.

  “Strictly business, I guess. But your dad is putting me up for the night.”

  “Here?”

  She seemed astonished. She even backed away a bit, as if he had said something unbalanced.

  “You should ask your father. It’s complicated.”

  “His work usually is.”

  She led him into a sort of parlor, where he sat on a long, deep couch while she remained standing. There was an awkward lull before an idea occurred to him.

  “Would you mind if I used the telephone?”

  “Until I know what my father has in mind for you, it’s probably best if you didn’t.”

  So she was loyal, too, in her way, even though her initial manner had seemed dismissive of household authority. Or perhaps, being the daughter of a policeman, she was instinctively wary of seemingly innocent requests. He wondered if she actually lived here. Surely at her age she was only visiting.

  “But I know he wouldn’t mind if I got you something to eat and drink,” she continued. “Would you care for tea? Coffee? What’s your preference?”

  “Water would be fine.”

  “Very well.” She turned toward the kitchen.

  “Actually—”

  “Yes?”

  “Coffee would be great. I haven’t had a cup all day, and I’m getting a headache.”

  She nodded and disappeared. Sam heard a cabinet open, then water rushing from the tap. Outside, the shouting continued, although the volume had dropped and there were fewer interruptions. A few moments later a coffeemaker began to hiss. He called out to Laleh from the parlor.

  “Do they always go on like that?”

  “My father and Salim? Oh, yes. Except when my mother is here. Then my father doesn’t feel quite as free to let go. That was Salim’s first mistake. Not waiting for ground support. He’s never known the right way to deal with my father.”

  “And what is the right way?”

  “Obviously I haven’t discovered it, or I wouldn’t still be living at home at the age of twenty-four. I run my own company, you know. Did my father tell you that?”

  “He hasn’t told me much of anything.”

  “He can be like that. Is filter coffee okay?”

  “Sure. So who else lives here?” He realized it was a nosy question. “Sorry. That was a little, well …”

  “Blunt? Intrusive?” She appeared at the doorway, tray in hand.

  “Yes.”

  She set the tray on a small table and sat across from him, then watched as he took a sip. The coffee was strong, exactly what he needed. A moment ago he had been exhausted and out of sorts. Now he felt tuned to a perfect pitch, alert to every word and gesture. Her graceful movements were like a tonic.

  “It’s all right,” she said. “I am accustomed to blunt. Everyone I work with is blunt. Englishmen mostly. Or Europeans. Media and public relations types who still act like boys and want to get rich in a hurry. Blunt is the only way they know how to be.”

  “Oh.”

  It was chastening to be lumped with a bunch of cads, but he was disarmed by her ease with his way of speaking. It wasn’t just that her English was good. She had the right mannerisms and cadences, too, even the offhand tone. Her father, for all the breadth of his vocabulary and flawless grammar, didn’t have that facility.

  “Do you want milk? Sugar?”

  “Black is fine.”

  “My business is in Media City. Have you been there?”

  “No. I’m in pharmaceuticals. Pfluger Klaxon. What kind of company do you own?”

  “A marketing firm, specializing in visuals. Graphic design and so on. Although we’re capable of handling the copy end as well. I still live with my parents because my mother and father wouldn’t allow it any other way. Even in the business world, women here must do things the old way. If you are not married, you must live with your parents.”

  He wasn’t sure how to react to all that. He was charmed, but he also found himself thinking of her as a bit of a spoiled rich girl. She was smart and bored, so Daddy put up the money for a business start-up, which helped get her out of the house. Strange, he supposed, but hardly the strangest thing he’d seen in Dubai. It reminded him anew of how little he knew about most of the places he visited; all those doings that percolated just beneath the surface.

  “You know,” she said, “Pfluger Klaxon would be far better off with a larger public presence here. In marketing and supplying their products, I mean. It really wouldn’t take much, considering the poor state of medicine in this country.”

  Sam stopped in mid-sip, astonished. It was exactly what he had been thinking before the trip. Because for all of Dubai’s wealth and boomtown feel, it was known as a place where even wealthy expats didn’t find it easy to get the best pharmaceuticals. The company could have easily built more goodwill simply by making its products more readily available.

  “You’re right. Exactly right.”

  “Well, if your people ever decide on that course, I can advise them on the best way to handle it, with maximum publicity benefit.” She handed him a business card.

  A born salesman, then. Already she had wedged her foot in the door, and she had managed it in a manner that m
ade him smile. Maybe she was no dilettante after all.

  “I’m sure you could. Thank you.”

  Sam slipped her card into the lapel pocket of his suit coat, and took a fresh look at his surroundings. He was again impressed. The furniture and fixtures were stylish but comfortable, in complementary earth tones. Someone in the family had a good eye for these things, and enough money to pull it off.

  “You seem surprised by our house,” she said.

  “I am. In America you wouldn’t generally find this much good taste and, well, prosperity, in the home of a police detective.”

  “And why is this?”

  “Well, police salaries in America are pretty lousy.”

  “They are here, too. Practically a beggar’s wages.”

  “Oh. Then how …” His voice trailed off.

  “How do we afford all this?”

  He wasn’t sure he wanted to know, now that he had pinned his hopes to Sharaf. But he nodded anyway.

  “The land and the house were free. Every citizen gets one. The rest comes from the businesses he owns, of course.”

  “Businesses? Your father?”

  “The Punjabis and Iranians who come here to open shops and restaurants must have someone to sign the documents, to stand in as a local owner. So my father has done that for maybe twelve of them. On paper, he is the owner. In reality, the Punjabi is, or the Iranian. The foreigner, of course, does all of the work. But out of gratitude he sends my father a check every month.”

  “They all do? All twelve of them?”

  “Of course. Many Emiratis do this, in all walks of life. You look as if you disapprove.”

  “Well, it’s just that, for a policeman …”

  “What?”

  “It could appear to be …”

  “A conflict of interests?”

  “Yes.”

  She smiled, the same smile you offer children who believe in Santa.

  “You sound like everyone who works in my building. They are more interested in appearances than in reality. Maybe it is because of what they do for a living—managing spin, molding perception—whether they are in PR, like me, or work for CNN. To me, either you are honest or you’re not. If you are, no amount of money can compromise you. If you’re not, then even the best appearances don’t mean you can be trusted.”

  “And your father?”

  “Not the easiest man to live with. But he is honest. Always.”

  The front door slammed shut. Laleh’s expression changed dramatically, and with the deftness of a magician she pulled out a white head scarf seemingly from nowhere and quickly wrapped it around her head, covering her hair in an instant. Heavy footsteps sounded in the foyer. Sharaf appeared in the doorway and warily surveyed the scene. He was still breathing heavily from the encounter on the lawn.

  “Laleh! What are you doing in this part of the house unaccompanied when there is a male visitor? And without your abaya! What would your mother say?”

  “That I’m being hospitable?”

  “You probably weren’t even covering your head until I came in.”

  Her blush told him all he needed to know.

  “Yes, I thought so.” He turned on Sam. “You weren’t speaking with her, I hope?”

  “I just—”

  “He hardly said a word. I did most of the talking.”

  “Not surprising. Well, I’m here now, so he’ll get all the hospitality he needs.”

  “Nice to have met you,” Sam said, feeling he should help deflect blame. “Thanks for the coffee.”

  “That will be quite enough, Mr. Keller.”

  “I have a ten o’clock curfew, if you can believe it.” Laleh was halfway out the door. She now sounded more like a teenager than a confident young businesswoman.

  “That will be all from you as well.”

  Sharaf stared until she had retreated out of sight. Sam heard a television switch on, a channel in English playing just the sort of music that Sharaf probably despised. The volume went up a notch. Sharaf stepped across the room, shut the door, and then turned back toward Sam.

  “Does she really have a curfew?” Sam asked.

  “Is that any of your business?”

  “No. But I’m not really any of your business, either, according to Lieutenant Assad. So maybe you owe me an explanation before things go any farther. Or maybe you could just let me use the phone.”

  “I wonder if Laleh always has this effect on men, making them too bold for their own good. Has it occurred to you, Mr. Keller, that Lieutenant Assad might actually have been doing you a favor by having you arrested this morning?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “By moving you out of harm’s way. Especially considering what has become of the only other reliable witness to those men who killed your friend.”

  “You mean—?”

  “Yes. I mean it is probably not safe for you to be wandering around on your own. Even if you were free to do so.”

  “Then why didn’t you leave me at the police station?”

  “Because it is also possible that Lieutenant Assad wants to put you somewhere secure, like a jail, not to protect you but so that an accident can easily befall you. Which do I think is the likeliest? I have no idea. And that is one reason I want you here. With your help I might be able to find out the answer, to that question and to others.”

  “So you’re not going to let me use the phone.”

  “Not for the moment. But I will reexamine the question tomorrow.”

  “What will I do about clothes? And money. A toothbrush, my razor.”

  “Yes, I see what you mean.”

  Sharaf sized him up, then nodded.

  “You are about Rahim’s size. He lives between us and Salim. Not that I wish to see either of them again anytime soon. But I will do what I can. Stay here.”

  Sharaf disappeared into the kitchen, then headed out the door. Sam immediately went to use the phone. But when he got to the kitchen he saw that the cradle was empty. Sharaf had taken the handset with him.

  He went back to the couch, where he sat listening to Laleh’s music from down the hall over the muffled sounds of shouting from next door. He half expected her to come creeping back now that her father had gone, but he supposed that for the moment she had expended her supply of boldness. He was sorry for that. With only himself for company he felt his worries return. He was even kind of homesick.

  On the other hand, he definitely wasn’t bored. Given what he had already seen of the household dynamics, the evening ahead promised to be interesting. After all those times he’d yearned for adventure, or an insider’s view, he was finally getting his wish—stretching himself, as Charlie might have said.

  Of course, that was before armed Russians and vengeful policemen had entered the mix. Simply staying alive sounded like a pretty good option, too.

  10

  Sharaf slunk down the hallway before dawn, a prowler in his own home. He paused by Laleh’s door to listen for suspicious activity before proceeding to the guest room. Keller was still asleep, thank goodness. So was everyone else.

  It had been a restless night. Amina had returned home from grocery shopping to be scandalized by the unannounced presence of an unfamiliar male. She viewed Keller’s installation as a workplace incursion into her domestic fiefdom. She nonetheless rose to the demands of hospitality by preparing a huge dinner and making strained conversation for a few hours. But just when the mood had started to loosen, Keller had put things back on edge by asking, “So tell me about the living arrangements in your compound. Who lives in the other three houses?”

  That was sometimes the problem with Western guests, particularly Americans. Show them a little warmth and they assumed an awkward familiarity. They were always wanting you to “open up,” as if candor equaled friendship.

  To make matters worse, Laleh proceeded to answer with unnecessary frankness.

  “Well, Salim lives in one. He’s the one you saw arguing with Father. He’s the eldest, with tw
o wives and four children. My brother Rahim has the smallest house, which is just as well, since he is twenty-nine and lives by himself. My two other brothers are both still students, living abroad.”

  Not noticing her mother’s chilly glare or her father’s doomed look of woe, Laleh rattled on like a runaway train. Perhaps the American’s appreciative smile was leading her into peril. Amina undoubtedly noticed that as well.

  “The third house is the most interesting. It belongs to my aunt and my cousins. My father invited them to build there because he felt sorry for them. His brother shocked everyone by dying without a penny to his name.”

  The airing of the last point was especially awkward. Sharaf’s decision had always been a sore point with Amina. Accommodating a fourth house meant the other three had to be smaller, and Amina had never liked Sharaf’s elderly aunt. He understood his wife’s resentment, but there were deeper and more secretive reasons for his generosity, ones that he never intended to share with anyone.

  Shortly after Laleh’s soliloquy, Amina stiffly offered her regrets and marched off to bed, leaving the cleanup to her loose-lipped daughter.

  Sharaf had braced for the worst when he finally headed for the bedroom.

  “I know, I know, I know,” he said preemptively as he joined his wife. He hadn’t even bothered to pour a glass of camel’s milk, knowing it would settle poorly after the beating he was about to take. “Having the American here is an imposition, and I apologize. I’ll have him out of here as soon as possible. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure that Laleh doesn’t say another word to him.”

  Amina said nothing in reply. She offered only a glare over her shoulder as she dressed for sleep. When she settled into the mattress she rolled onto her side, turning her back to him. Her matronly hips curved beneath the sheets like a distant, imposing bluff, snowy and insurmountable. Her continuing silence was unnerving. It was like bedding down next to a volcano. Eventually there would be an eruption, and the longer she remained inactive, the more violent the eventual explosion would be. Sharaf decided to vent some steam.

  “If it’s any comfort, no one outside our family knows about this. There will be no hint of scandal with regard to Laleh. So if anyone from my office calls, for whatever reason, don’t mention a word.”