“We make quite a pair. Good thing we’re not worried about standing out.”
“Would you have preferred I wore my police uniform?”
“It was a joke. Sorry.”
“Jokes were not what I was hoping for when I agreed to let you help me.”
“Then how about some information?”
“You have some?”
Sam told him first about what he had learned from his coworker Plevy about the phone Nanette had given him, with its GPS tracking device.
“Didn’t you say you turned it off for a while?”
“Then I switched it back on, just before the Russians showed up at the York.”
“No wonder Arzhanov panicked. He must have realized where you’d gone and felt like he had to act immediately. Anything else?”
He told Sharaf about how Nanette’s and Liffey’s careers had crossed paths in Moscow, and the press release that linked them both to RusSiberian Metals and Investment, the company providing cover for Rybakov in Dubai. He mentioned the dates of Nanette’s most recent trips to Moscow and Dubai, and her cooperation with police on the anti-counterfeiting task force.
“Now if we just knew what was going to happen on the fourteenth,” Sharaf said.
“What are Rybakov’s rackets?”
“The usual. Drugs, gambling, money laundering. Through real estate, of course, or this wouldn’t be Dubai. But being a former KGB man, his first love has always been porn and prostitution. The business of choice for ex-Soviet spies, or so I heard from an old hotel man in Bur Dubai. Years ago when there was still a Soviet Union, he did lots of business with Rybakov, renting him conference rooms for visiting Soviet commercial delegations. It was long before anyone had even heard of the words ‘Russian Mafia.’”
“Conference rooms? I thought Rybakov was KGB?”
“There was very little here for those kinds of people to do back then. No one from the West to spy on but a few oilmen, or the occasional banker. So Rybakov would help out the commercial attaché in his spare time. Part of his cover, I suppose. And then, of course, the whole Soviet system collapsed. Poor fellows like the Tsar weren’t even getting their paychecks on time. And that was when my hotel friend first caught him stepping out of bounds. Rybakov rented a suite of rooms, supposedly for some visiting oil and gas engineers. But when my friend happened to drop by to make sure everything was to the customer’s satisfaction, he found a film crew and three naked women, with Rybakov directing.”
“He was making a porn movie?”
“He’d been doing it for weeks, apparently, in hotels all over town. It was the only way he could get paid. So by the time all those construction workers began flying in, the Tsar must have seen them as a ready-made market for the naked women he was procuring.”
“The perfect capitalist, adapting his product to the market.”
Sharaf nodded. Then he slowly stood up from his chair, looking a bit wobbly.
“Where to?” Sam asked. They began walking, easing back through China toward Persia.
“Our first stop is an address in Deira, to see our doorman and bouncer from the Palace Hotel. I know a route that will allow us to elude anyone in pursuit. Next stop, the Beacon of Light women’s center. The director returned my call while I was in prison. I finally reached her an hour ago, but when I asked about this Basma character from your friend’s datebook she refused to say anything over the phone. I decided to take it as a promising sign, if only because nothing else seems very promising right now. In fact, we may run out of time even before we run out of leads.”
“Monday the fourteenth, you mean?”
Sharaf nodded.
“It gives us less than forty-eight hours. And even that may be optimistic. The Minister, who has been backing me, is losing patience. I kept him from shutting me down only by convincing him that you are dead. Meaning we will have to hide from our friends as well as our enemies.”
“Dead? Wasn’t that a little extreme?”
“There were moments when I believed it. It is why I am pleased to see you in one piece, even if you did spend the night with my daughter.”
“I was pretty much out of it the whole time.”
“Yes, that was her story as well.”
Sam didn’t belabor the point, and neither man said a word as they exited the mall from a corridor in India.
The father-daughter reunion wasn’t exactly warm and fuzzy. Sharaf called out gruffly to Laleh as he approached the car. She was seated at the wheel, her arm resting on the window frame.
“Here, take this and put it on.”
It was an abaya he must have procured somewhere along the way. He was speaking English, as if to make sure Sam understood as well that he was restoring order to this world gone mad.
“Now hand me your keys. Mr. Keller and I need your car. I am going to drop you at the taxi stand, over there with the tourists. If you need transportation for the rest of the day you can use my Camry. Ali had it delivered to the house. But I suggest that first you had better make peace with your mother, assuming that is even possible after what you have done. Not that I don’t appreciate the valuable service that you’ve rendered.”
Laleh didn’t budge.
“And good morning to you, too, sir.” She, too, spoke pointedly in English. Sam felt awkwardly like he was witnessing a formal debate, and that he would soon be consulted for his judgment on the winner. “I’m gratified to see you’re okay, but this is my car owned in my name, and I am driving. Please sit in the back. Or up front, unless it makes you uncomfortable sitting next to a woman driver.”
“Laleh, this isn’t a game.” He glanced around the parking lot, as if nervous about remaining exposed. “I don’t let women drive me around. Not your mother, and not you, especially not after your behavior last night. It’s as simple as that.”
“You do when it’s not your car. Please, get in before someone sees you.”
“I
paid
for this car, Laleh. And I’m losing patience.”
He reached for the handle, but Laleh was quicker, shooting the lock and rolling up the window. Sam, trying to stay out of the line of fire, crossed to the opposite side and got into the back. He buckled up and braced for the collision.
Sharaf, cursing under his breath, walked stiffly around the front of the car. He slapped the hood sharply with his palm and made his way to the passenger door. Laleh unlatched it, and Sharaf threw it open. He paused briefly, as if deciding whether he could really endure this. Then his policeman’s need for safety prevailed, and he slid into the seat, slammed the door, and gazed straight ahead, jaw rigid.
Interesting strategy, Sam thought. Apparently Laleh had concluded that the best defense was a good offense, and she had seized the initiative in the battle of wills. Whatever sanctions her parents had in mind, it was obvious that in Laleh’s mind the game had changed forever, and henceforth she would press for every possible advantage. He was impressed.
“Buckle up, please,” Laleh said. “You know how terrible the drivers are here.”
Sam watched the skin above Sharaf’s collar turn a deep red, but the man didn’t say a word. Considering the trouble Laleh was already in, Sam wondered what her new curfew would be now. Sunset, probably, with no television and no Internet. Or maybe her father would simply dispatch her to some secluded finishing school for naughty young Islamic ladies.
“Where to?” Laleh asked, continuing to address her father in English.
Sharaf emitted a deep, guttural sigh but said nothing. He turned to gaze forlornly into the parking lot.
“All right, then,” Laleh said brightly. “I’ll head east, since there really isn’t anything much to the west except Jebel Ali. Just grunt when you want me to turn.”
The skin above Sharaf’s collar was now livid.
Laleh pulled the BMW into the eastbound lanes of Sheikh Zayed Road and floored it, expressing her anger with the gas pedal as the acceleration pushed Sam deeper into his seat. When she hit 120 kilometers per hour—about 75 miles per hour—there was a loud, high
ping
, and then a mechanical voice spoke up from the dashboard: “You are speeding. Please slow down.
Ping
. You are speeding. Please slow down.”
“Most people have that disconnected,” Laleh said to Sam. “My father did in his car, and my mother did in hers. But of course in my car they would not permit me. So there you go. Just like in a taxi.”
Her tone was controlled, but her foot pressed harder on the pedal, and the voice kept issuing its warning.
“Nice, isn’t it?” she said brightly. “Especially when you’re running late for an appointment and everybody else is flying past you anyway. Not that any of my appointments really matter.”
Sam cleared his throat.
“All right,” Sharaf said, breaking his silence. His voice was surprisingly under control. “You’ve made your point. But before I say anything more, you have to slow down. There is no hurry.”
Laleh eased up immediately, having won the first round. Sam wouldn’t have thought it was possible.
“But just what
is
your point, Laleh? That is one thing I would like to know. Are you simply trying to impress your friend here?”
“I’m doing it because, one, you need to see firsthand, here and now, that I am a thinking, resourceful person who, occasionally, can actually make judgments for herself. Two, that I’m scared for you, for both of you. And I figured the only way I’d have a chance to talk some sense into you was if I, well, sort of kidnapped you for a while, or at least got to drive you around. I’ve seen the precautions you’re taking, the risks you’re willing to endure, and the damage that both of you have already suffered. And, yes, Father, I’ve even heard you on the phone late at night, talking to the Minister about how terrible this might all be. If you want real privacy you should go outdoors, or better still, let
me
go outdoors. So I guess what I’m really saying after this awful and exhausting night is that I don’t want you to risk your life over some stupid investigation. You’re not just a detective, you’re a father and a husband, and Sam here is a young man who, with any luck, will also be a father and a husband. So maybe you should both reconsider.”
Sharaf seemed taken aback, but not in a bad way. The color of his neck had faded to medium rare.
“Laleh, you’re only going eighty now. If you really are worried for my life, then please concentrate on your driving or we’ll be rear-ended by some idiot doing two hundred.”
Right on cue, a Mercedes whizzed past on the right, blaring its horn and blinking its brights. Laleh sheepishly eased to the right amid more honking, and brought their speed back up to a hundred.
Sharaf took a deep breath, which seemed to calm him further. Laleh had disarmed him as only a daughter can disarm a loving father—with her care and concern.
“All right,” he said finally. “I see what you’re doing. And because of how you feel I can almost excuse what you did earlier this morning. Almost. And, by the way, have you phoned your mother? Does she have any idea where you are?”
“I was going to do that later.”
“You’ll do it in the next five minutes, even if we have to pull off the highway. And that is not negotiable.”
“Okay.” Demure voice, ceding ground she knew she couldn’t hold.
“Or maybe fifteen minutes would be better, because I can see now that it is going to be necessary for me to tell you a very old story. And to hear it you’re going to have to take this next exit, because I won’t tell it while you’re driving.”
She looked over at her father as if not quite believing him.
“Well, do you want to hear it or not?”
She took the exit, the one for Emirates Mall.
“Pull into the parking deck,” Sharaf said. “A lower level, where we’ll be out of sight.”
She circled downward and squeezed into a space between two other BMWs. They sat in silence for a few seconds while the color of Sharaf’s neck continued to fade down the spectrum. He turned toward Sam.
“This is a private story about my family. I am afraid I must tell it in Arabic so that only Laleh will understand it.”
“Sure. Okay.”
“No,” Laleh said, employing her new favorite word. Sam figured she hadn’t used it this much since the age of two. He braced for Sharaf’s next explosion.
But the older man contained himself. Maybe he realized he was dealing with a strange new phenomenon of defiance, a force of nature every bit as unstoppable as a sandstorm, or a plague of locusts. Whatever the reason, he asked his next question in English, and in a tone that was calm and reasonable, if somewhat puzzled.
“Why do you say ‘No’ to me now, my daughter? Are you overly tired? Or is it because, as all of those ridiculous Western television programs designed for ladies like to say, that you are suddenly feeling ‘empowered’?”
Laleh seemed to hold back a grin.
“My reason is more practical. If you really are about to explain why you can’t possibly turn back, then doesn’t Mr. Keller deserve to hear it as well? Now that your destinies are shared.”
Sharaf considered her words a moment, then nodded, apparently relieved to find himself back in territory where he at least understood the logic.
“A valid point. Very well, then. If Mr. Keller has the patience, then he, too, may hear the story of our family’s disgrace.”
“Disgrace?” Her resolve seemed to waver.
“Yes. ‘Disgrace’ is exactly the right word, as you will see. It is the foundation upon which our wealth has always been based. Do you still wish for a stranger to learn why?”
There was a pause, followed by a small nod and a very quiet “yes.”
“Then I will tell you. It is the very reason I became a policeman, or more to the point, an
honest
policeman.”
“It wasn’t because of that television show,
Percy Mason?”
“No, my dear. And it’s Perry, not Percy. Although that story is real enough. I really did feel like a shining knight of justice whenever I translated his triumphs for our neighbors. But that came later, when I had tutors and was learning English. By then my father could afford to pay for such things. The real reason came earlier, when I was twelve. It was summer, the year before Ali and I would put to sea. My family was not really poor, no more than anyone else. But our house was not as grand as it would become, and our pleasures were simple. One of mine was that on the night of every full moon I enjoyed sneaking down to the banks of the creek, because that was when the women and girls liked to swim. They went into the water in their dresses, of course, even after dark. But, well, you know what water does to dresses. It was the only way a boy of twelve could ever expect to see such things.”