“Morty,” he shouted after him, “you need insurance and a license before they’ll—” But then he gave up, knowing it was useless from the second he opened his mouth.
Key was thankful that Dubai had plenty of parking as he braked and ran after the sergeant, already planning for what he’d have to do. And the more he planned, the worse it got.
“Morty,” he said again, seeing that the sergeant was hurling his kandora, ghutrah, and agal off to keep running in just his skivvies. “Wait a second. Let me just—”
But then his immediate luck ran out since a class for Jet Ski renters was already well in progress. On the small “Dubai Ride” dock, six Jet Skis were bobbing, topped by a half-dozen tourists being instructed by a sun-glassed, bronze-skinned, copper-haired, beach bum surfer dude. To Daniels’s delight, but not Key’s, the Jet Skis’ engines were on.
“Now, another important thing to remember—” the instructor was saying in Australian-accented English. But that was as far as he got, since Daniels ran by, knocked the youngest, fittest, renter from his seat, and took his place. Before the instructor could even react, Daniels had executed the Jet Ski equivalent of peeling out.
Then Key was there, grabbing the instructor by the arm and jumping into the water with him. As the instructor surfaced, he saw Key making sure the teenager Daniels replaced was safe. Key and the instructor helped the lad back onto the dock as the rest of his family surrounded him.
“Military police emergency,” Key kept telling them as he backed away. “Military police emergency. We’ll get your water ski back as soon as possible. Thank you for your cooperation.”
Then he was back in the car, hearing his own kandora squish on the leather interior. He pulled out as quickly as he could, hoping it was fast enough to keep the instructor or any of the family from noting the SUV’s license plate.
He drove back to 2C Street, scouring the area for the most logical pick-up point, while planning for any possible outcome. As he did so, he found a grin widening on his mouth. Because every time the odds looked ridiculous, they changed when he factored in the wild card. A wild card called Sergeant Morton ‘Fuckaduck’ Daniels.
* * * *
“Friggin’ Jet Ski,” Sergeant Morty Daniels swore repeatedly, trying to make the three-hundred-horsepower Sea-Doo go as fast as the Harley-Davidson V-Rod muscle motorcycle he rode at home. “Come on, come on, you asshole,” he urged the machine, judging he was going around forty miles an hour.
At first he couldn’t even spot the raft and boat. But he pinointed the center of SADE Island, and headed for it like a radar-controlled missile. In a few intense minutes, he saw some specks in the distance, and corrected his course toward them. Then, less than a minute later, he could make out the raft and boat.
He recognized the latter as a bay boat, designed for use in large shallow bays, like the Persian Gulf. He also saw four men aboard, two holding machetes and two holding hooked poles, the kind used to collect anchor or mooring ropes. Either could also make quick work of an inflatable raft, or human, skin. He leaned forward until his chin was nearly on the handle bars, and opened the throttle as far as it would go.
By the time he got within fifty feet of the two watercraft, the bay boat was bearing down on the raft. He vaguely heard Gonzales shouting, “You don’t have to do this, Khalifa!”
“Yeah,” Daniels said. “And I don’t have to do this either.”
He targeted the front side of the bay boat, then did his favorite trick. He caught the side of a crest, jerked to attention, and brought the Jet Ski up out of the water.
All he had to do was get above the bay boat’s gunwale. He did.
The workmen in the bay boat screeched when the Jet Ski cut diagonally across their bow, sending two men flying, their machete and pole spinning into the gulf.
On shore, Key’s walkie-talkie crackled. “Is this your idea? Over.”
“Guess!” Key shot back, relief flooding him. “What’s your heading, over.”
“I see the sign for the Sunset Mall,” Gonzales reported. “Over.”
“Too far to your left. Go toward your right. West of Jumeira Beach. Look for a half-horseshoe dock. That’s the Sailing Club. There’s a sandbar to the right of it. Over.”
“Gotcha. Thanks for the sea support. Over.”
“His pleasure,” Key said, keeping an eye out for any angry Australian Jet Ski instructors. “Make sure he brings that thing back. Over.”
“Like I’m my Morty’s keeper,” Gonzales said, tension seeping from his voice. “I’ll do my best. Over.”
“You always do. Over and out.”
By the time Gonzales returned his attention to the attempted water rundowns, Daniels was circling the bay boat threateningly, while Al-Alam stood aboard, desolately holding his hooked pole.
“Bring us near,” Gonzales instructed Faisal, who looked skeptical, but did as he was told. Gonzales held up a restraining finger to Daniels, then let the raft float to just outside a hooked pole’s reach—all while making sure he saw where the water-treading workers were. Wouldn’t be prudent at this late date to have a migrant worker swim behind them with an ever-ready machete. He took a last second to make sure they were out of SADE Island range as well.
“After we leave,” Gonzales instructed Al-Alam, “sink the raft. Bring along the deflated shell if you think that will help convince your masters.” He motioned for Daniels to come alongside. He knew from experience that the Jet Ski model the sergeant was riding could seat three.
“Tell them we drowned,” Gonzales told the bereft manager. He would never forget the look on Al-Alam’s face. He recognized surprise, disbelief, suspicion, then, most tragic of all, a despairing hope.
By the time he joined Faisal behind Daniels, all four workers were back in the bay boat. “If they let continue to set up the exhibit,” he called to the manager, “finish your shift, then stay with your men. Do not let them separate you from understand. Do you understand?” They might say they want to reward him. They might say they want to promote him. They might say anything to get him alone.
The next second would tell Gonzales the manager’s fate. If he nodded, he had a chance. That meant he was thinking, and planning for the worst. If he spoke, he was as good as dead. That meant he had no idea of who he was dealing with, and how they saw him as less than chickpeas they massed into hummus.
“But,” Al-Alam said. “But they will think I have followed their orders. There will be no reason to—”
Gonzales didn’t hear the rest. Daniels had already gunned the motor, spun the Jet Ski, and was heading toward shore.
Gonzales’s lips were thin and tight as he contemplated the manager’s fate. Al-Alam was well-trained indeed. The same spinelessness that made him tattle on Gonzales in the first place would see to it that he thought he was going to be respected, even rewarded, for doing as his masters asked. He was wrong.
“I sure as shinola hope this thing had a full tank when I left,” Daniels shouted. “Or else we’re about to have a helluva swim.”
Chapter 24
Even the grateful Australian surfer who taught the Jet Ski class might not have recognized them now. The Key and Daniels who returned the Sea-Doo, none the worse for wear—even filling its fuel tank—looked nothing like the two who’d walked through Burj Park. Gone were the Emirati cloaks and head gear, replaced with perfectly tailored, remarkably lightweight suits.
The suits were waiting for them when they returned to the secreted women’s shelter within the souk, as were Rahal and Lailani. The latter tried to act indifferent, but gave Daniels a big hug as soon as he opened his arms. Inspired, Rahal embraced Key as well. Hadiyah smiled on them, and waved them over to the table, which was being covered with small bowls of food by a mix of Filipino and Ethiopian woman.
Gonzales and Faisal dug into the steaming Ethiopian injera flatbread, spicy meat stew, slightly
wilted greens, rice—both basmati and pilaf—and sweet tea, while the marines, who had eaten before the escape from SADE Island, considered their next move.
“‘Zon Baa Nard,’” Daniels said. “Frog, I mean French, weapons guy.”
“Jean-Bernard,” Key said. “Jean-Bernard Toussaint. Very slick, very friendly, very powerful arms wheeler-dealer.” The sergeant looked at the corporal with raised eyebrows, again impressed by the man’s depth of knowledge.
“All you have to do is read, Morty,” Key said drily.
“I read,” Daniels said with mock defensiveness, winking at the others. “Comic books, on the crapper.”
Lailani rolled her eyes, while the others just continued in standard-operating-Morty-mode.
“Toussaint could be fronting Awar,” Gonzales said around a mouthful of mutton. “He’d need a front. No matter how powerful he is in Yemen, Dubai authorities can’t have him just waltzing around tourist traps.”
“Is it safe to say the weaponized arachnosaur is the most wanted armament of the SADE show?” Key asked Rahal.
She nodded, her eyebrows making a concerned crown in the middle of her forehead. “So the Chinese would kowtow like crazy for his rep, don’t you think?”
Gonzales translated for Faisal, who nodded. Then Gonzales translated for him. “He says Awar is not stupid, but does have balls the size of coconuts. No, he would not walk around anywhere, but yes, he might be in the city, somewhere safe, preparing a demonstration for bidders.”
Key leaned back, one hand on his chin, the other on the back of his head. “So how do we find out where that is?”
“Follow Toussaint?” Daniels asked while scooping some stew with a corner of the injera he had torn off.
“Sure,” Key replied. “How do we find him?”
That stymied them. For a few moments, the only sound was of mastication and tea schlurping, until Hadiyah spoke up.
“I think I might know a few people who could help.”
They all looked at her, but she was looking beyond them. They all turned their heads to see a roomful of “invisible women.”
“You’re not sending them back to the families who abused them?” Lailani reacted incredulously.
“Of course not, dear,” Hadiyah answered. “But they know where all the maids gather to gossip and grouse, don’t they?”
* * * *
As small groups of fugitive maids went out to collect information—always chaperoned by Hadiyah or Lailani—all covered in abaya body sheaths, shayla head covering, and niqab veils. Gonzales went to work creating new identification cards for the marines, using the network of artisans within the souk land walls. It all came together faster than even Key expected. By the time he and the sergeant held their new Department of Defense IDs, the renegade servants returned with pay dirt.
“Jean-Bernard Toussaint is in town,” Hadiyah reported, “with his wife and son. While she shops, a Scandinavian nanny takes care of the five-year-old.”
“That’s not very helpful,” Daniels complained.
“Let me finish, wid kabir.” She smiled. “But also, while she shops, he will occasionally take his son to many of Dubai’s child-friendly attractions. They’ve already been to the water and amusement parks. But one of the maids told us that they’re planning to go to the Aquarium today.”
“Great job,” Key said.
“Wid kabir, Daniels said. “You’re always calling me wid kabir now. What’s wid kabir?”
Lailani put one arm around his shoulders, and her other hand on his upper chest. “‘Big Boy,’” she translated. “Because you’re a big boy, aren’t you, wid kabir?’”
“Oh,” Daniels said. “Well, that’s all right then.”
Key tossed him his new ID, which Daniels caught nimbly. “You’re also ‘Daniel Morton,’ Department of Defense now. Try to remember that, would you?”
“Yes, sir, ‘Kenan Josephs,’ sir,” Daniels replied, using Key’s cover name. Gonzales thought best not to get too complex at such short notice.
“Suit up,” Key said as Gonzales and Faisal started breaking out their more sophisticated communication devices. “We got an Aquarium to scour.”
* * * *
Dubai’s aberrations of grandeur didn’t make it easy. Like almost everything else in the City of Gold, the Dubai Aquarium and Underwater Zoo was pumped up to almost absurd pretentions. First, it was located in The Dubai Mall, which claimed to be the largest in the world, smackdab in the middle of the downtown area known as Business Bay. Second, the mall was flanked by Burj Khalifa, the tallest building in the world, and Burj Khalifa Lake, a thirty-acre man-made body of water, which, in turn, housed the Dubai Fountain, the largest choreographed water ballet in the world.
At the time they were passing, it was using its twenty-two thousand gallons of water and seven thousand lights to dazzle slack-jawed tourists with a waterlogged interpretation of the Mission: Impossible theme.
It was Key’s turn to roll his eyes. “Apt,” he muttered as Daniels grinned.
Things did not improve once they entered the mall’s four levels of excess.
“Ever wanted to know what twelve hundred stores look like?” they heard Gonzales in their ears. “Now you do.”
The mechanic was managing the miniature comm-links while Faisal was behind the wheel, backing the marines up from the Renault, which was in one of the lot’s fourteen thousand parking spaces. Gonzales felt secure that any passing security attention would be minimal, but, even so, to be on the safe side, he had changed the license plates for this single visit—just in case the mall was in the habit of taking a temporary digi-picture of every vehicle as it entered and exited.
Key stared at the thousands of window-shoppers, tourists, and staff people amid the six million square foot debtor’s prison. “Now I know how you felt on SADE Island.”
“Yeah, almost too much to take in, huh?” Gonzales said. “Go by the Mediclinic, theme park, movie megaplex, and Ice Rink.” He wasn’t kidding about any of them. They were all inside the mall, and huge. “Look for the Discovery Zone, or any sign of enclosed water. Even in here it’s hard to miss. It’s three stories tall.”
Daniels tapped Key on the shoulder. The corporal turned to see a huge wall of clear glass, behind which thousands of aquatic creatures swam. Taking up most of his view were dozens of sharks and stingrays, with hundreds of smaller fish serving as a moving mosaic background. He couldn’t help wondering which he was, the shark or the stingray. He had the disquieting feeling he was probably a tiny tile in the background mosaic.
“Come on.” Daniels sighed, already moving in that direction. “The sooner we make contact the better.”
They bought a ticket, accepted a brochure, and checked the information desk for places Toussaint might be with his son. There were many: a Virtual Reality attraction, a King Crocodile exhibit, a Cage Snorkeling Experience, and even a Glass Bottom Boat Ride.
Daniels shook his head at the futility of their task. “What a way to usher in the end of the world.” He smirked. “Come on, mister Josephs, let’s take ’em one at a time. This should be fun.”
They found him, as Key suspected they would, outside the Senior Aquarist Shark Scooter Underwater Experience, the most exclusive and expensive attraction in the place. It lasted four hours and took a VIP guest on a personal behind-the-scenes tour that featured all the above, as well as feedings of both sharks and the rest of the animal kingdom. Toussaint just sat there in the attraction’s lounge, wearing a linen suit that must have set his clients back tens of thousands of dollars.
It was a cunning spot. Once the marines had turned the corner, they found there was no window on the swinging door. And once they went through the door, there was no way to retreat that was unnoticeable. To make matters worse, Toussaint was alone in the small, well-appointed, well-lit room. One arm lay along the top of the banquet he sat up
on, while his other soft, clean, perfectly manicured hand was in his lap. His legs were crossed at the knees. Key got the errant thought that his loafers might have cost more than his suit.
“Gentlemen,” he said in lightly accented English.
“Sir,” Key replied, already turning. “Sorry to have bothered you.”
“Hardly a bother,” he said casually. “Don’t leave on my account. Feel free to stay for as long as—”
By then Key was already out the door, with Daniels close behind.
“Joe—” Daniels said, then, remembering their covers, quickly added “—sephs, what the duck?”
But by then he noticed two more men in suits moving smoothly, but swiftly, toward the swinging lounge doors. He also noticed they were looking, with blank faces, directly at them, but by then Key was already moving faster.
To Daniels it looked as if the approaching man was raising his hand to ask a question, and Key was turning so he was facing the same direction as the questioning man. But then the approaching man’s face slammed into the floor as if he had been shot from a cannon.
Daniels stared at Key as he slammed the second knuckles of his spearing right hand into the throat of the second approaching man, without looking at him, while kneeing him so hard between the legs that Key would not have been surprised if they found the man’s gonads lodged in his throat.
Key did not stop, or wait, to check. Daniels was right behind him as the corporal went as fast as he could without running, looking for any way to go that didn’t include the way they had come.
We’re fucked, he thought, but said, “Trap,” announcing to his entire team that they should defend or kill without pause or question. Since Gonzales didn’t respond, Key prayed the Renault would still be there if they managed to get to it.
Too easy. Just the look on Toussaint’s placid face told him everything he needed, and didn’t want, to know. Information gotten could also mean information given. Key’s crew had nothing to offer a desperate runaway. Toussaint’s crew had plenty to promise.
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