On Edge

by Albert Ashforth

Quietly, she said, “Pete was killed because of what’s in Hamed’s document. It’s as simple as that.” When I said, “Are you sure?” she said, “Take it to the bank.”

  I couldn’t resist. “The Kabul Bank?”

  “God, I hate you! Can’t you ever be serious?”

  Ignoring the flare-up, I said, “Hamed said the information is of critical importance.”

  “Important to whom?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  “Why would it be important?”

  “I don’t know why it’s worth so much money.” When she said, “How much?” I told her.

  “Twenty-five million euros.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  I paused to gaze out at the two swimmers, one blond and one brunette, who were climbing out of the pool. Both were slim and long-legged and wore revealing bikinis. The blond had an especially nice figure.

  “Hamed wants twenty-five million euros for the one copy of some document?” When I only nodded, she didn’t respond, clearly irritated by my ogling the women.

  Finally, I said, “At least you now know the reasons why Pete never was able to get his hands on the information.”

  “Was there more than one reason?”

  “There were twenty-five million reasons,” I said.

  CHAPTER 22

  SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 17, 2013

  “YOU LOOK UNHAPPY,” I said. “Don’t you like the food?” I scooped a last forkful of rice and raisins, a dish called Muhammar, which I was eating for the first time and which had tasted better than I thought it would.

  “Food’s all right, I guess.” Captain Corley took a swallow of mineral water, then pushed aside her plate. “I’m not that hungry.”

  It was late Sunday evening, and we were seated at a rear table in the Sahib restaurant, a dark, quiet place located on the second floor of a three-story building in the Al Garhoud section of Dubai. The neighborhood was chock-a-block with souks, a number of which were in the same ornate building as the restaurant. Adjacent to the restaurant I noticed a small construction site.

  We were among the last diners. Over her left shoulder I could see the restaurant entrance, where the headwaiter was in conversation with a newly arrived couple. For some reason the new arrivals looked familiar.

  The waiter may have been telling them the place was near its closing hour.

  “We need that document,” Corley said. “Pete had an idea what was in it.” She touched a napkin to her lips. “Pete wanted it, and now I want it.”

  The woman had her blond hair piled up on top of her head and was wearing a white pants suit.

  “Did you hear what I said?”

  As the man spoke with the headwaiter, the woman gazed around. I may have noticed her because of her unusual hairstyle. It seemed that the waiter was trying to discourage them, but they were being persistent.

  The waiter finally nodded and began leading them back toward us, halting at a table roughly twenty feet from ours.

  “I’m talking. Are you listening?”

  “Of course I’m listening.”

  At that moment, our waiter arrived and began clearing our table. Corley asked to see the dessert menu.

  “It’s important,” she said. “You’re not listening?”

  “Dessert’s important?”

  I once read somewhere that we all possess a sixth sense, an ability that evolved over millions of years that provides us an additional measure of protection in a world not always as friendly as we might like it to be.

  “Yes, ma’am. Of course, ma’am.”

  “Stop calling me ‘ma’am’! I have a name. Use it!”

  That sixth sense has come to my rescue on more than one occasion, so I’m inclined to pay attention when I become aware of it.

  “I think I’ll order the ice cream,” Corley said.

  As I glanced around in search of the waiter, I noticed out of the corner of my eye that, with the waiter gone, both of the newcomers, the man and the woman, were now getting to their feet—and both were moving in our direction, their eyes locked on this table.

  “Will you kindly pay attention to what I’m saying?”

  The guy had his hand inside his jacket and was approaching from ten o’clock, while the woman had stepped around an adjacent table and seemed to be coming at us from six o’clock, in other words, from directly behind me.

  These were the two people who’d been tailing me when I left the hotel yesterday!

  When I turned, I saw Abdul Sakhi.

  Now he was standing just ten feet away and, having removed his hand from his pocket, had a gun pointed directly at me. Without thinking, I picked up a glass and hurled it in his direction. It struck him in the chest at precisely the moment he squeezed off his first and second rounds. With the two bullets flying by me, I got up, charged by the adjoining table, and tackled him before he could get off another shot. His weapon fell to the floor, but he aimed a karate chop at my neck, which sent me to my knees.

  This guy was good, no question.

  Corley had grabbed the woman before she could fire. She retaliated by giving Corley a shove back toward our table. As Sakhi tried to shake himself free, I picked up the weapon on the floor. He pulled out a pistol, and for an instant, we both aimed weapons at each other.

  We squeezed off our rounds simultaneously. The difference was my shot struck him while his missed me. He spun around, then crashed slowly down on top of a table, pulling the tablecloth and everything on the table down on top of himself.

  While he was still on the floor, I became aware of the woman, who was still holding her weapon and was now pushing aside tables and chairs. She wanted a clear shot at me. But as she tried to aim her weapon, Corley, who was again on her feet, stepped forward, grabbed her wrist, and twisted. When she released the woman’s arm, the woman went crashing against another table and fell to her knees.

  Within seconds, Sakhi and the woman were both back on their feet, shoving aside two diners and pushing aside empty tables in an effort to reach the exit. Sakhi was clutching his arm. I assumed they weren’t eager to speak with the police, who would be arriving in short order.

  With both assailants gone, I signed to Corley that we also had to get out. We weren’t eager to speak with the cops either. But getting out wasn’t going to be easy.

  By now, half-a-dozen diners were on their feet, pointing and shouting. The headwaiter raised his arms, trying to quiet them down. Kitchen staff, waiters, and diners crowded at the entrance, effectively blocking that escape route.

  Corley was clutching her bag. The expression on her face said, “What do we do now?”

  The place was in total chaos. People milling, chattering in multiple languages, and for a moment, not paying attention to us.

  Which meant we had a chance—if we acted quickly.

  The restaurant’s staff circulated through the room, picking up tables and chairs as best they could. An individual in a dark suit, probably the manager, had appeared from somewhere and was at the door talking to a waiter.

  I pointed toward the rear of the big room. Maybe we could get out that way.

  “Let’s try the kitchen.” I began heading toward the rear.

  When I looked back, I saw two policemen had already arrived and were immediately surrounded by people eager to tell their stories. The cop in charge had everyone’s attention and was speaking with the man in the dark suit.

  The more aware I was of this situation, the more desperate I was to get out of it.

  The kitchen had two doors. Through one, the waitstaff entered; through the other, they left with food. When we got there and pushed our way in, I took a quick look around, saw the room was empty. No doubt the cooks had stormed out when they’d heard the shooting and screaming outside. Glancing around, I saw we were in a large space well equipped with stoves, tables, work areas, receptacles, and refrigerators. Closets and cabinets were all over. Pots, pans, knives, and equipment of all kinds hung from long metal bars attached to the ceiling. A pil
e of canvas covered what seemed to be boxes of equipment and carpenter’s tools. They were strewn along a portion of the rear wall where a bank of shelves was being torn out for a new closet.

  On the far wall was a metal door, which I opened. Beyond the door was a long metal staircase, which led down to an alley.

  As I was about to tell Corley to follow me down, I heard voices. People were down at the street-level entrance, talking loudly. Cops? Then as I listened, I could hear them beginning to come up the stairs. I shut the door quietly. In a minute they’d be here in the kitchen. A closet would be the logical place to hide, but I didn’t see one large enough at this end of the kitchen to hold both of us. There was a door that led into a large refrigerator, but I didn’t want to go in there.

  I grabbed a large piece of canvas from out of the workmen’s pile. As I unfolded it, I pointed and Corley nodded. She lay down flat beneath a table, stretching out her arms. I spread the canvas out over her, then grabbed a cutting board and a frying pan. I crawled under the canvas myself and tossed the objects on top. Hopefully, whatever bumps showed, they didn’t look like a couple of human beings spread out on the floor.

  Seconds later, I heard the door banging open and people entering the room. I was curious but didn’t dare peek. In fact, I was hardly breathing. I heard a couple of doors being thrown open and figured they were conducting a quick search. From the voices, I assumed there were four people, all men, all yakking in Arabic. One guy, no doubt the person in charge, did most of the talking. As they moved out, I lifted the canvas, took a quick look. They wore blue uniforms. Definitely police.

  After pulling off the canvas, we got to our feet and headed again for the door leading to the back steps.

  It was locked. The cops were sealing up all the exits. Good police work, guys.

  “Over there, a window,” Corley announced. She was back in the role of giving orders.

  At the window, I looked out. Below was a courtyard with a high fence topped with barbed wire on all sides. Even if we made it down, we’d never make it out of the courtyard. Twenty feet from the building was the trunk of a very thick, very old palm tree. I couldn’t see that as much help. Farther down, at the construction site, was a small tower, alongside which stood a crane. The tower was too far away to reach. I pushed open the window, looked up. We were on the second floor. Twenty feet above us was the roof. But to get up there we’d need to scale the building’s sheer brick wall.

  Impossible!

  We had to get out of here fast.

  I shook my head. “We need a good strong rope.”

  Corley nodded, then began ransacking the carpenter’s equipment. When she found a medium-thick coil of rope and held it up, I shook my head. “Not thick enough. Keep looking.” She continued to pull out all kinds of stuff from the carpenter’s pile. After rummaging through two large wooden boxes, she removed a neatly rolled length of thick rope.

  “What are you thinking of?” she said.

  “I’m still not sure.”

  After handing me the rope, she pushed up the window, leaned out, and peered upward. “There’s nothing up there,” she said.

  I leaned out. “There may be.”

  I was considering a stone statue, a kind of gargoyle about four feet in height, sitting on the edge of the roof. One of the statue’s arms was extended. Although the statue looked solid, was it stable?

  I figured it for about eighteen feet above us.

  Pointing upward, I said, “I need to get the rope around the arm.”

  “It doesn’t look that strong. I don’t think it will hold us.”

  “There’s one way to find out.”

  It was a good length of rope. I began with an overhand knot, then slipped the tail of the rope back through it. As a Boy Scout I learned to tie a honda knot many years ago, but now I had to do some experimenting and reach back into my memory, first trying this, then trying that.

  “Why are you taking so long?”

  It did take a while, probably over five minutes, but I finally got the knot the way I wanted it. I pulled the knot so that the loop was large enough to go around the statue.

  I leaned out and began tossing the lasso upward, trying to get it around the gargoyle’s arm. At first, I didn’t come close, but by the fifth or sixth try I was just missing. On the next try, I nearly fell out the window.

  Corley grabbed me by the belt, which made it possible for me to lean out further. On maybe my fifteenth try, I got the loop around the gargoyle’s arm. I pulled down hard. The statue didn’t budge, and the arm didn’t break. So far, so good.

  She frowned. “I’m not sure we should try this.”

  “You won’t be helping your military career by spending a couple of years in an Arab jail.” When she grimaced, I said, “I’m going to swing out and up the wall. I should be able to make it.” I didn’t add “as long as the statue holds.”

  I was wearing sneakers, but Corley was wearing low-heeled dress shoes. She removed them, stuck them in her handbag, and gave me the handbag, which I fastened to the back of my belt.

  “There’s a wall running along the side of the roof. Can we get over it?”

  I said, “I’ll know when I get up there.”

  “I’ll go first,” she said. “I’m the better athlete.”

  “No, you’re not. You just think you are.”

  No sense in arguing. I shoved her aside and hopped onto the windowsill, grasped the rope, then gave myself a mighty push. The rope didn’t snap and the gargoyle continued to sit up there with his arm extended. With my feet against the wall, I began pulling myself hand-over-hand up the rope. As I pulled, I was reminded of a wall-climbing exercise in basic training. I also remembered that I hadn’t been very good at it.

  As I climbed, the pain in my arms increased with every pull. It probably wasn’t more than five minutes, but it seemed like five years.

  When I reached the statue, I was able to get my arms around the gargoyle’s head. Up close, I could see it was grinning ear to ear.

  With my arms around the gargoyle, I was able to scramble over the wall. Then I dropped the rope back down. Corley grabbed it. As I peered over the wall, I could see her looking down. When she hesitated, I wondered if she was afraid of heights. I waved, calling down some words of encouragement.

  She continued to hesitate. Again, I called, this time mentioning something about her athletic ability.

  Finally, she jumped. The gargoyle remained unmoving—and continued to smile.

  “That’s a good fella.” I patted his head.

  With her bare feet against the wall, she pulled herself upwards, one hand after the other. The truth was, she was a good athlete. If she hadn’t been, she wouldn’t have made it. When she was even with the statue’s arm, I was able to reach out, grab her arms, and lift her over the wall.

  “Never a doubt,” I said, gasping.

  “You’re an idiot,” she said as she began putting on her shoes. “If you knew how close you came to breaking your neck, you wouldn’t make dumb remarks.”

  The thought occurred to me that maybe I should have let her fall.

  Pointing across the roof, I said, “That way.”

  After clambering over a couple of small walls, we were on the roof of an adjacent building. I pointed to a trap door. “I think that’s how we get inside.”

  I yanked at the trap door. When it wouldn’t budge, I thought it might only be stuck from disuse. After a minute tugging and yanking, I assumed it was locked from inside. I flashed a look of disgust.

  Then I said, “Let’s both pull.”

  It was some kind of tin, and with the two of us pulling and yanking, the door began slowly to bend. Finally, the metal gave. The lock held, but we had an opening. Doing my best not to cut my hands, I bent it back until it was large enough to slip through.

  “You go first,” she said.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  After climbing down a short ladder, we were on the building’s upper landing. We descended tw
o flights of steps to the ground floor. Outside, there was a crowd of people and vehicles with flashing lights but no one paying any attention to the door of the building from which we were about to emerge.

  Crowds were gathered around the restaurant’s entrance.

  When I said, “We go out slowly,” she nodded.

  More people, attracted by the excitement, were coming up the street. We mixed in while moving away from the hubbub. The street was wide and curving, and parked at the curb, I saw a police vehicle. The cops were eyeing people, and there were no convenient corners we could duck around.

  Moving straight ahead, we continued to walk, and the police didn’t stop us. After another fifty yards, there were a couple of souks, one selling lights and fixtures, the other selling clothing.

  We entered the souk selling lighting fixtures.

  She said, “I’m a mess.”

  While standing in front of some reflecting glass, she fixed herself up. I checked out my jacket and did my best to get my hair under control. When we left the souk, there were only a few strollers on the sidewalk. More important, we looked civilized again.

  A little further on, we approached an expensive-looking restaurant, with some people standing in front and waiting for a taxi. We joined them. When a cab arrived, the driver would assume we’d just left the restaurant. I didn’t want anyone in this part of the city to remember us.

  I gave him the address of the Warwick Hotel, which I knew wasn’t far from the Ritz-Carlton. After I’d paid the driver, we walked the last couple of hundred yards and entered the lobby as though we were returning from an evening stroll. As we waited for the elevator, Corley said, “Would you care for a nightcap?”

  “Why not?” I said.

  Ten minutes later we were in her hotel room, and I was seated in the room’s most comfortable arm chair, ogling my dinner companion’s legs, which were spread in front of her and resting on an ottoman.

  I said, “That’s the first time I ever left a restaurant without paying.”

  “It sounds as if your conscience is bothering you.” We were both clutching glasses filled with scotch, water, and ice and doing our best to pretend that nothing had happened. The TV was turned to the English-language news station with the volume off.