On Edge

by Albert Ashforth

  Hot water, an odd remark. My visit with Stan was brief, but it confirmed my earlier impression that he wasn’t looking well. Even his handshake felt limp. He seemed worried.

  “The report on who killed Pete is in Washington. I think that’s going to be pretty much the end of it.” Stan paused. “Doug Greer’s back at work. He was quoted in a news story yesterday. Something about bringing better communications into Afghanistan.”

  I checked my watch. “I’m headed for the airport.”

  “Take care, Alex.”

  * * *

  The flight left on time, and I arrived at Dubai’s spacious, modern airport at 1430, four and a half hours later.

  I’d booked a room at the Ritz-Carlton because it’s situated on the edge of Dubai’s Financial Center. At the airport I exchanged euros for dirhams, enough to pay for a taxi to the hotel. After checking in, I took a quick look around and counted four restaurants and three bars. I wouldn’t have to go hungry or thirsty during my stay.

  Hamed had given me his extension, and I put in the call at a few minutes before 1700 hours. He answered on the second ring.

  “Ah, Mr. Klear. You’ve arrived.” When I said he sounded surprised, he laughed. “To tell the truth, I thought you’d decided not to come.”

  “I was delayed.”

  “I suggest we meet in my office. I’m located in the Almas Tower, on the 51st floor. Do you know Dubai?”

  “A little. I’m here for the second time.”

  “Dubai is a very easy city in which to get around. What do you intend to do this evening?”

  “I didn’t get to see the fountain when I was last here.” The Dubai Fountain is a prime tourist attraction and always jammed with people.

  “If you go, you’ll have plenty of company.” I got the impression Mr. Hamed wasn’t impressed by my plans for the evening. He hung up without saying good-bye.

  Dubai is hot, but is otherwise a good city for walking. The streets are broad and the buildings modern. Heading out of the hotel, I walked up 4th Street toward the world’s highest building, then back on Sheikh Zayed Road for a short distance. I was pushing through the Metro Station crowd going in the direction of the Emirates Towers when I noticed a man who somehow looked familiar. As I walked, I asked myself where I had seen that face before. It took me a couple of minutes to make the connection. His face was the face we’d received from the FBI’s facial recognition program.

  Abdul Sakhi.

  In the picture I’d seen, he’d been clean shaven. Now his face was hidden behind a beard and a thick pair of glasses.

  Otherwise, he was dressed as a worker, in a long jacket, jeans, and cap, and was carrying a toolbox. He had just come from the far side to this side of the road. After two minutes, I stopped to gaze into a shop window. He was waiting for me thirty yards further on, gazing into a shop window of his own. I figured his partner would very likely be a woman. Spotting her turned out to be more difficult because of the numerous women whose faces were partially concealed behind veils.

  Among the crowd were a number of European females, and I definitely wouldn’t have noticed her if her partner hadn’t made me wary. She was blond, dressed in a nondescript pair of gray slacks and carrying a glossy handbag.

  Okay, so I was the rabbit.

  When I stopped walking, so did the woman. When I speeded up, so did she. As I walked, I didn’t see Abdul Sakhi again until I emerged from a souk that sold jewelry. Now he was dressed in a dark suit, and looked very much like a successful business type. He’d jettisoned the beard but still wore the glasses. The one jarring note was his boots, which clashed with his suit and which he hadn’t had time to change. I let him precede me up the sidewalk. When we reached the Emirates Towers, there were fewer people on the sidewalk, which made their job more difficult. Although I hadn’t seen his partner for a while, I now assumed she had me in her sights. I also figured she would now be wearing a burqa, the perfect disguise for this part of the world.

  I decided to give them a chance to chase the rabbit and earn their salaries. I hailed an empty taxi. I got out when I reached downtown, then walked back toward the Dubai Mall, which isn’t far from the Ritz-Carlton. After a short tour of the mall, I walked to the hotel. I didn’t see either of my friends, but that didn’t mean they weren’t watching me.

  Walking around Dubai was a lot different from walking around Kabul. On my one previous stay I’d learned that in Dubai alcohol is available only in certain bars in the city. But it is available in all hotels. Since I was perspiring mildly, I felt as if I’d earned myself a beer. I also wanted to do some thinking. In the hotel’s Café Belge I ordered a Stella Artois.

  When I decided to do some sightseeing, it was because I had a reason. I’d become mildly paranoid after my experience in Kunar Province, and it now seemed as if someone cared enough about me to want to know how I’d be spending my time in Dubai. One thing was sure. Sakhi and the woman were an experienced team, very definitely professionals. If I hadn’t seen the FBI photo, I doubt I would have tumbled to the fact I was being tailed.

  Two things I’d figured out: One, that Abdul Sakhi had murdered Pete. Two, his reason had something to do with Pete’s work on the Kabul Bank.

  * * *

  Taraki Hamed was right about the Almas Tower not being far from the hotel. When I walked over the next day, the trip was less than ten minutes. I assumed I was being tailed, but when I made a couple of detours and sudden turns in direction, I couldn’t spot anyone. Recalling that watching and being watched was part and parcel of the business I was in, I decided not to let the surveillance bother me.

  After giving my name to the guards, I walked across the lobby of the Almas Tower to the elevator where, after a brief wait, I was joined by a burly gentleman who had a bulge beneath his breast pocket and who rode up with me and also exited at the 51st floor. I wasn’t surprised when he also entered the office with me and, in fact, even held the door. Something else to wonder about was why Mr. Hamed needed security people.

  After introducing myself to the female receptionist, I saw a tall, broad-shouldered man with a friendly smile standing at the door to the firm’s spacious inner office.

  “I’m Taraki Hamed,” he said.

  I said my name, and we shook hands.

  I estimated Hamed to be in his late forties. He had dark, wavy hair, a swarthy complexion, and a thin mustache. I stepped inside the elegant space. His firm, S&A, was described on the downstairs directory as dealing in personal services, which was a description so broad I couldn’t help being curious as to what it meant.

  A minute later, the receptionist came in with a tray filled with pastries and a pot of green tea. We adjourned to a corner of the office, which was furnished with a sofa, two chairs, a large coffee table, and some green plants. Across the room the sun shone through a large window from which, beyond the roofs of a number of buildings, I could see a sliver of blue, the waters of the Arabian Gulf.

  When Hamed asked how I was finding Dubai, I said, “Different from Kabul.”

  “Yes, it’s quite different. I agree.” He smiled.

  Some of the news stories I’d found among Pete’s papers mentioned that Hamed had been an official of the Kabul Bank. I asked how long he’d been in Dubai.

  “Less than a year. Dubai is warm, to be sure, but otherwise a nice place to live.” As he poured tea, he said suddenly, “Can I ask what is it you wanted to speak to me about?”

  I decided to be blunt. “About the Kabul Bank. I was hoping you could help me.”

  “How?”

  “By providing me with some information.”

  He flashed a condescending smile. “The Kabul Bank is bankrupt. The founder of the bank and other officials are on trial for fraud.”

  “You are a former official of the bank. Twenty-two of your colleagues . . . former colleagues . . . are being tried. But you have escaped prosecution.”

  “I am not being prosecuted for a very simple reason. I haven’t done anything wrong.”
He smiled, shrugged to emphasize the point, then took a cookie from the tray. “Let me ask, Mr. Klear. What is your interest in the Kabul Bank?”

  “In my e-mail I said that I was following up on the work of Colonel Hansen. You might say I am Colonel Hansen’s successor. As I’m sure you know, Colonel Hansen is dead, the victim of an assassin’s bullet.” When he nodded, I said, “Is it possible that someone who was involved in the fraud is not being prosecuted?”

  “Mr. Klear, forgive me, but the way you talk makes you sound naïve, as if you are hardly aware of the realities. I would have expected more from a man who describes himself as Colonel Hansen’s successor.”

  “I’m listening, Mr. Hamed.”

  “So far as I know, all the people who were involved with the Kabul Bank fraud are on trial.”

  “All except you.”

  He smiled again. “As I said before, I have not committed any crime.”

  Aware that I wasn’t getting anywhere, I took a sip of tea. I decided to try a different tack. “How often did Colonel Hansen visit you here in Dubai?” When Hamed said, “Half-a-dozen times,” I knew this guy was important. I couldn’t let him get away. At the same time I didn’t really know why Hamed was important.

  Why had Pete come down here?

  I said, “People estimate that 900 million dollars has disappeared. The money belonged to the American government.”

  “The American government has been very generous to the people of Afghanistan.” He touched his finger to his face. “And to the people of Dubai. Here in Dubai some of the prosperity has been underwritten by the American people, but perhaps unwittingly.” When I asked him to be more specific, he said, “Many of the luxury villas have been financed by money from America.”

  “The money from the Kabul Bank was meant to be spent in other ways. Not on luxury villas in Dubai.”

  “Of course. To help the people of Afghanistan to recover from the damage inflicted by the war in their country.”

  “According to an audit by an American firm, twenty-two individuals benefitted from the bankruptcy of the Kabul Bank. The number of firms is doubtless in the hundreds.”

  “That could be a conservative number.” Hamed watched as I took a sip of tea, replaced the cup, and reached for a cookie.

  “Mr. Klear, we’ve been beating around the bush for too long. And I am a busy man. You say you are a successor to Colonel Hansen.”

  I nodded.

  “Colonel Hansen was a military man, an employee, you might say, of the American government.” Hamed took a tiny sip of tea, replaced the cup. “As a result, he was unable to raise the money to pay for what it was he wanted from me. In the course of his visits here, he was never able to persuade me to just give him what he wanted. He made numerous appeals—to my patriotism, to my country’s indebtedness to America, and so on.”

  “Your country?”

  “I’m still an Afghan, from a remote province. But as I say”—Hamed smiled—“all his appeals were in vain. Mr. Klear, I don’t know who your principals are. I don’t know if you are ready to pay the money I am asking.”

  At the risk of sounding dumb, I asked the question. “What will I be buying?”

  Hamed hesitated, looked at me thoughtfully. “You know, Mr. Klear, that is precisely the question Colonel Hansen asked me on his first visit to Dubai.”

  “And how did you answer?”

  “I said that I was a good observer. I said he would be buying the results of my hard work. Does that make sense to you?”

  “Can you be more specific?”

  “He would be buying information that the bank auditors have not discovered, and never will discover. Detailed information of how money was removed from the bank, where the money is now, and who controls it. But he would also have been buying something perhaps equally important.”

  “What would that be?”

  “More than that I’d prefer not to say.”

  “How much are you asking?”

  “Twenty-five million euros.”

  I realized why Pete hadn’t been able to obtain what he wanted.

  “The information is contained on a USB drive. You would need to buy it. There is one copy, and one copy only. No more will be made. The hard drive on which the drive was composed has been destroyed. I have to tell you, there may be other bidders for this information.”

  “Which means?”

  “Which means you will have to act quickly. Whoever acts first and is willing to pay what I am asking will receive the one copy.” Hamed got to his feet. “As I say, no other copies will exist.”

  Now I knew why Hamed needed security.

  I stood up, and at the door we shook hands.

  “I wish you a pleasant stay in Dubai, Mr. Klear.”

  I nodded and headed out of the office and down to the elevator.

  Corley’s plane was due to arrive at a few minutes after two. It was now just eleven, which meant I had time to take a walk and get to know Dubai a little better. In the course of my walk I didn’t see Abdul Sakhi or his female companion.

  * * *

  While seated on a sofa in the crowded Ritz-Carlton lobby, I saw Captain Corley, her carry-on slung over her shoulder, push her way through the big revolving door and take a quick look around. She was wearing a light blue jacket over a white blouse and a matching skirt. From thirty feet away, I could see an impatient frown on her face. She appeared angry. I had an idea she’d be angrier after she’d heard what I had to say.

  “My plane was late,” she said. “Did you—”

  “I arrived yesterday afternoon.”

  “I know that. I don’t suppose that means—”

  “Yes, I’ve already been to see Hamed.” I shrugged. “I’ll save you the trouble of asking, ma’am. The meeting was less than satisfactory.”

  After a brief pause during which she seemed to be trying to keep her irritation under control, she mumbled something under her breath. It sounded like choice profanity. Finally, she said, “I remember telling you to wait—”

  A couple standing a few feet from us turned to look, their faces filled with curiosity.

  She pushed me to a point where we couldn’t be overheard. “If you’d listen to me, we—”

  “I thought I handled things quite well, at least as well as can be expected.”

  “It certainly doesn’t sound like it.”

  Abruptly, she turned and marched across the Ritz-Carlton lobby to the reception. After she’d checked in, she returned to where I was standing.

  “I’m perspiring. The receptionist says there’s a nice pool on the roof.”

  We rode together on the elevator, Corley to the fourth floor, me to the sixth.

  She was right. The Ritz-Carlton’s pool was very nice, and she was already there, doing laps, when I arrived fifteen minutes later. I took the plunge and caught up with her at the far end, where she was taking a short breather.

  I said, “Wanna race, ma’am?”

  “Four laps, loser buys dinner.” And off we went.

  “You’re pretty good,” I said five minutes later between gasps.

  “Better than you.” She pushed off in the direction of the ladder. When I said, “I let you win,” she flashed a look of disgust. “Has anyone ever called you a male chauvinist?”

  “Of course not!” As I watched Corley climb the ladder, I found myself again admiring her trim figure, her arms, her tits, her thighs. The thought occurred to me that it was too bad her personality was such a disaster.

  Something else I wondered about: How could Pete have put up with this woman?

  “Tell me about Mr. Hamed,” she commanded. We were seated in adjacent reclining chairs, wrapped in bathrobes, holding bottles of water and watching two women doing backstrokes.

  After describing Hamed and his sumptuous office, I said, “Pete had been down here half-a-dozen times. Hamed has something Pete wanted very badly.” After a sip of water, I said, “Hamed’s been here in Dubai for close to a year.”

 
; “In other words, not that long. He comes from Afghanistan, am I correct?”

  “He said he’s from one of the remote provinces. He didn’t say which one. I’m assuming he moved down here after the Kabul Bank collapsed.”

  “That was in 2012, a year ago.”

  “Here he’s a partner in a firm dealing in personal services, whatever that may mean. He was a highly placed official in the bank.”

  “I know that.” When I didn’t comment, she said, “I have a question.”

  I knew what the question was going to be.

  “Why didn’t they charge Hamed with fraud?”

  “According to Hamed, he hasn’t been charged because he didn’t commit fraud.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  “At first, I was skeptical. After thinking it over, I do believe him. In the course of our conversation this morning, he said he learned to be a good observer.”

  “Why is that important?”

  “I think what must have happened is that, right at the beginning, Hamed decided he didn’t want to have anything to do with the fraud because he saw the danger of antagonizing the American government. He didn’t like running the risk of going to jail. But that didn’t mean he didn’t like money as much as all the other bank officials. He merely decided he was going to get rich another way.”

  “How?”

  “By closely observing what was happening. I think what he did was write down everything—names, numbers, dates.”

  “It must have been an enormous job to track a billion dollars.”

  “Last year, there were two detailed and thorough audits. Hamed got his hands on both audits.”

  “Pete told me that. He compared what he knew with what was in the official audits. The prosecutors are, of course, basing their cases on what the auditors found. But Hamed knows some things that the auditors and prosecutors don’t know. Clever.”

  “More than clever. Brilliant. He says he has everything in one document.”

  “That’s what Pete wanted: the drive that contains the complete story.”

  “How do you know?” When she only said, “I know,” I said, “Why would it have been so important to Pete?”