So, by the time Sam had heard enough about No No Nanette to realize that he ought to keep his distance, he had developed a habit of watching keenly from the lunch table as she arrived in the office cafeteria, fresh from her shower at the gym. He could never quite take his eyes off her as she briskly negotiated the salad bar, still flushed from her exertions. Her title, and even her age, only seemed to heighten her appeal, lending a stern air of risky authority.
For all those reasons, Sam was a little disconcerted as she stepped into Gary’s office wearing a tapered black skirt and a green silk blouse, which stood out against the white walls like jade on bare skin. She took a seat directly across from him and crossed her legs with a swish of black nylons.
“So tell me about this trip of yours.”
Gary began laying out the proposed itinerary. Nanette produced a small tape recorder, seemingly from nowhere. She stood it on Gary’s desk and pressed RECORD.
“You’re taping this?” Sam asked.
“Tapes all her meetings,” Gary said briskly, as if he regularly attended.
Nanette frowned apologetically.
“A necessary evil for the head of corporate security, I’m afraid.”
Sam had never heard of such a policy. Gary soon wrapped things up.
“Sounds like an excellent plan,” Nanette said. “And as long as you’re headed that way, Sam, I have a small assignment. Provided you’re interested.”
She recrossed her legs. The chair creaked like a mattress. She looked quite good, though he wasn’t usually attracted to older women, especially ones in a position to ruin him.
“Sure,” he said, his mouth dry.
“How well do you know Charlie Hatcher?”
Her tone was casual, but neither she nor Gary moved a muscle.
“Charlie in quality control? The older guy?”
“He’s forty-four. But, yes, that Charlie.”
“Can’t say I know him well, but we worked together on the Brussels job last fall.”
The job had been conventional, even routine, a three-day fixer-upper carried out in New York for one of their operations in Europe. Charlie and he had meshed easily enough, relating to each other in the usual way of older and younger colleagues. Sam deferred to Charlie’s experience, while Charlie patiently humored Sam’s hunger for fresh approaches. Things went so smoothly that Sam mildly regretted having to decline Charlie’s offer of a drink after they wrapped things up on Friday. He had other plans, but might have squeezed in at least one round, and since then there had been no occasion to renew the acquaintance.
“He seemed like a good guy. Easy to work with.”
“Any other impressions?” Nanette asked.
There were, in fact, but Sam wasn’t inclined to offer them, not with his questioners looking so eager—particularly Gary. And it wasn’t as if he had anything profound to say. It was just that Charlie had struck him as a man who, even within the rigid hierarchies of Pfluger Klaxon, had grown comfortable with the idea of going his own way. The solutions they worked out that week had fallen well within company practice, but in implementing them Charlie had bypassed the chain of command and contacted the European office directly.
“It’s okay,” Charlie had reassured him. “When you’re out there in the provinces, old son, the leash grows very long and very slack. By the time our folks here think to give it a tug, those guys will have everything tidied up.”
Charlie was a man who had come to terms with the arc of his career, and that was especially refreshing when compared to the burnouts and buttoned-up types Sam usually encountered in the older ranks. Still, he could see how such habits might eventually catch the attention of a corporate security officer, especially one as exactingly proper as Nanette Weaver.
“Well?” Gary prompted.
“He was a straight shooter. With me, at least. And a nice guy.”
“Oh, he’s plenty friendly,” Gary said. “That’s the least of our worries.”
“You’re worried about him?” Sam directed the question at Nanette. “He’s very competent.”
“I agree,” Nanette said. “He’s a valuable associate. Especially when he’s home and behaving himself. It’s when he gets out in the world that he becomes a concern. An embarrassment, even.”
“Doing what?”
“The usual male transgressions. Women, booze. Not that all you fellows don’t indulge in some of that. But Charlie crosses the line. That’s why I’d like you to travel with him, be his friend for the weekend. At least until he’s well beyond the temptations of Dubai.”
“Spy on him, you mean.”
“Not at all. You’ll simply be along for the ride, keeping his nose clean. I’m not asking for a single report on his behavior, or his movements, and I won’t be badgering you for updates along the way. That would be unseemly, even improper. It’s not like we expect saintly behavior. I just want you to, well, keep him from going off the deep end.”
“Like a chaperone.”
“If you prefer.”
“For a man sixteen years older than me. Will you be telling Charlie about this?”
“In a manner of speaking. He’ll be told it’s you who needs a chaperone—because you’re a little shy, unseasoned, especially in the Arab world. So he’s supposed to take good care of you. Even show you a good time, within reason. To sweeten the pot, you’ll be staying at Charlie’s usual hotel, the Shangri-La, which is a regular, well, Shangri-La.”
“What if he ditches me?”
“Then you’re to let me know. Only as a precaution. By using this.”
She slid a black cell phone across Gary’s white desktop. The mere idea of it seemed to raise the stakes, and Sam’s first inclination was to avoid it.
“I have my own.”
“This one’s better. It’s already got a SIM card for Dubai’s server, and the battery’s good for a full week. You’re to keep it switched on 24/7, in case I need you.”
Sam still didn’t pick it up.
“I’m not sure I’m comfortable with this. Maybe I’m not the right guy for the job.”
Gary frowned.
“Do me a favor, Sam. Do the department a favor. Just play along.”
“No, no. It’s all right.” Nanette smiled benevolently. “I don’t want him doing something he’s not comfortable with. But, Sam, I would like you to consider that Charlie has a family. A wife and three children, two in college. And if he runs off the rails again I’m not sure we can hush it up a second time. Much less keep him on the payroll.”
“You’d fire him? What has he done?”
Gary spoke again.
“‘Whoremonger’ would be the indelicate term.”
Nanette frowned.
“Ever heard of the Cyclone?” she asked.
“Vaguely. Some nightclub in Dubai?”
“A brothel bar, in the local parlance. Or used to be. There was a big write-up about it in Vanity Fair. The government was so embarrassed they raided the place. Loads of cops. And, as luck would have it, our Charlie was there. That wouldn’t have been so bad if he hadn’t started railing drunkenly at the police. He told so many of them to fuck off that they dragged him to the station, where he said some even more unpardonable things.”
“Like what?”
“Do you really need to ask that, Sam?” Gary said.
“It’s all right. He’s an auditor. It’s his nature to ask. It’s a good thing, Gary. One of the reasons you keep promoting him. What Charlie said was words to the effect of how Dubai was led by, and I’m quoting from the police report, ‘a bunch of towel-headed hypocrites, stupid killjoys who need to get their own house in order before they start policing everybody else’s.’”
“Oh.”
“Yes, ‘Oh.’ It all got back to the royal family, of course. To the supreme ruler for the emirate, Sheikh Mohammed. His dad, Sheikh Rashid, was the one who built the place up from nothing. Not exactly good for business to offend them, especially when we’re opening a new regional office t
here. If Charlie’s experience and contacts weren’t indispensable to our plans in that part of the world, we would just make Dubai off-limits. As it is, we have fences to mend, and with your help we can mend them. As you may know, Dubai is our most important transportation hub. The port at Jebel Ali handles everything we ship to points east, not to mention all the raw materials we receive in return. It’s also the biggest transshipment point for pharmaceutical counterfeits, and the government has finally agreed to let us start training their customs inspectors on how to crack down. So these are people we can’t afford to alienate, much less infuriate. As for Charlie, well, look at it this way. Your work just might save his career.”
Which is why, after a little more nudging from Nanette, Sam ultimately agreed to play along. Although he wished he hadn’t almost the moment Charlie and he landed, when Nanette, breaking a promise, phoned him for an update as he stood in the passport line. It was the first of three such calls she had made so far.
Charlie, at least, had softened the blow by dropping several hints that he knew the real reason they’d been paired. And up until an hour ago the man had been virtually trouble free, not to mention so companionable that Sam had finally turned off his phone while they were riding across town to the York, a small act of rebellion that he was already regretting now that Charlie had disappeared.
Sam checked his watch. Thirty-four minutes and counting. A few people were heading toward the exits. He decided he had better turn his special phone back on, just in case. He watched the screen come to life. Two messages from Nanette were waiting, but before he could check them the phone rang.
“You turned off your phone. Why?”
Nanette sounded furious. Sam calculated that it was nearly 7 p.m. in Manhattan. He imagined her seated by the window in her office on the fiftieth floor, bathed in the dusky light of early evening, her legs crossing with a dangerous hiss.
“I, uh, needed a recharge.”
“Bullshit. But we’ll deal with that later. Where’s Charlie?”
“The two of us are at the York Club. It’s—”
“A notorious fleshpot.” Same words Charlie had used. “How long have you been there?”
“Maybe an hour?”
“Damn it, Sam. And where, exactly, is Charlie?”
“He seems to have disappeared. Maybe fifteen minutes ago. Or closer to thirty-five, I guess.”
“With a whore?”
“Apparently.”
“Russian?”
“Maybe. I’m not sure.” Did she really know Charlie’s tastes that well? “If it’s any comfort, there aren’t any police.”
“You’ve dropped the ball, Sam. Dropped it and kicked it clear down the block into the gutter, along with your career and Charlie’s, too. I’ll take over.”
“But I could—”
She hung up.
He sighed, shut the phone, and swallowed hard. Then he glanced nervously down the darkened hallway. Still no Charlie. Someone announced from the bandstand that it was closing time. A collective groan went up from the women. One brushed past on his left, practically in tears. Sam could sympathize. He, too, would soon be answering to an angry pimp. He was in a hell of a mess, and he feared Charlie was in a bigger one.
Ten minutes passed as he nervously cooled his heels, glancing every few seconds toward the empty corridor. By then the York was half empty, with a knot of departing men and women clogging the exit. A sudden commotion drew his attention toward two beefy fellows in black T-shirts and tight sport coats who were bulldozing in against the flow. They burst into the clear, headed for the corridor, and disappeared into the gloom where Sam had last seen Charlie.
Sam decided to find out what was up, but he had taken only a few steps when a woman emerged from the shadows at top speed. It was Charlie’s whore, the one in blue sequins. She was wild-eyed and barefoot, and her dress was torn at the shoulder and wet across the front. Had gentle old Charlie done that? She recognized Sam and rushed toward him, tumbling into his arms—all musk and perfume. She blurted something unintelligible, then switched to English.
“Your friend! You must come now! Hurry!”
She tugged his hand. The sound of slamming doors echoed from the corridor, except the noise was louder, sharper. The two big guys stepped out into the light and headed for the exit. They weren’t running, but they weren’t strolling, either. It was a businesslike pace, assuming your business was trouble. One had a hand in his jacket. The other scanned the floor and locked eyes with Sam, a glance that dropped the temperature to Siberian levels. Gray eyes, buzz cut, Slavic cheekbones. Features sharp enough to break ice all the way to the Arctic Circle. Russian, Sam guessed, like the woman. Her angry pimp, or maybe the pimp’s enforcer. What on earth had Charlie done, and what had become of him?
He followed the frantic woman down the hallway to an open door at the far end. Charlie lay a few feet inside, faceup in a spreading pool of blood. His midsection was a meaty red blotch torn at the edges like the tip of an exploded cigar. Viscera and pulp, blood and intestines. Sam had failed him, had failed everyone, and Charlie was dead, practically blown in half. Switch off your phone in a single moment of independence, and this was what happened.
Sam bent forward. Then he retched and heaved. Five drinks and an overpriced dinner streamed hotly up his throat and onto the bloody floor.
Poor dead Charlie. He deserved better.
2
Sam heard the first wave of cops approaching down the hallway—the clank of gun belts and nightsticks, excited shouting in Arabic, the heavy tread of boots. He sat exhausted and distraught in a swivel chair. Charlie’s body lay at his feet, fully clothed but crudely disemboweled, as if clumsy surgeons had hacked the man open and then abandoned the operation. The room smelled like gunfire, blood, vomit, and new carpeting.
Charlie’s face was a pale grimace, a trace of righteous anger seeming to linger even as his corneas filmed over like the eyes of a beached fish. His arms were spread wide, as if his last words had been a question: “Why here, and why now?”
At least the pool of blood was no longer spreading. Sam had already vomited a second time, into a trash can. A few minutes ago he had phoned Nanette to break the news. Her anger turned instantly to shock.
“Oh, my God!” she said. “How?”
“Someone shot him. Two men, I think, but I didn’t see it happen, and they ran off. I’m with him now. It’s horrible. They blew him apart.”
“Have you alerted the police?”
“They’re on the way.”
“Stay with the body, if you can bear it. And Sam?”
“Yes?”
“I know this is awkward, but can you check for his BlackBerry? It’s a terrible thing to ask of you, but we can’t risk having it fall into the wrong hands, not in Charlie’s line of work.”
“Quality control?”
“You’d be surprised.”
Sam squeezed his eyes shut, already bracing for the grisly task. Good God, but she was coldly efficient. Or maybe it was simply the difference between sitting in a spotless office in Manhattan and being in a bloody room with a dead body. And it was her job. She’d probably handled this sort of thing before.
“I—I’ll try. It’s a pretty big mess.”
“I understand. Just do what you can. I’ll phone the embassy, they’ll want to know. At some point there will be forms to fill out, procedures to follow, but leave all that to me. I’m coming on the next flight. Leaving tonight, probably.”
“You’re coming here?”
“We’ve lost one of our own, Sam. In the line of duty. Of course I’m coming. Just stay there until help arrives. And whatever else you do, cooperate fully with the authorities. We have lawyers there on retainer if you need one. In fact, I’ll round one up now.”
“Why would I—?”
“You probably won’t. It’s only a precaution. Police aren’t always the best in places like Dubai. Another reason to get his BlackBerry before they arrive. Otherwise, do what they
ask and get some rest. I should arrive in the evening, your time, and I’ll take it from there. Better cancel your appointments in Hong Kong when you get a chance. There are usually a few loose ends in these situations, and I might need your help tying them up.”
“Sure. See you tomorrow, then. Or later today, I guess. It’s three thirty here.”
“I’m sorry, Sam. I know this wasn’t what you bargained for. I never should have asked.”
“If I’d only—”
“Please. Save it for later. I’ll call the lawyer. Stay strong, Sam.”
“Right.”
After hanging up he felt lonelier than ever, and faced the grim prospect of poking around in Charlie’s pockets for BlackBerrys, or phones, or whatever else needed salvaging. He found himself hoping that the bullets had destroyed any hardware so he could just leave everything in place. It was sticky and glistening down there, a slaughterhouse.
He peeled back a lapel of Charlie’s suit jacket, wondering vaguely why the man was fully dressed. Maybe he and the whore had finished their business and Charlie was preparing to leave. There was no BlackBerry, no phone. Next he checked the side pockets of Charlie’s trousers, finding a handkerchief, the entry ticket for the York, a silver Cross pen, and nothing more. That left the rear pockets. Sam wasn’t sure he could bear the idea of trying to roll the big man over in all this blood. The mere thought of rooting beneath the body made him gag. His fingertips were bloody, so he wiped them clean on the base of Charlie’s trousers. Then, carefully avoiding the pool of blood, he got down on his knees and poked his right hand beneath Charlie until he felt the bulge of a wallet in the right rear pocket.
Layover in Dubai Page 2