Vikram was one of the men with a death grip around his ankles.
“Come,” Vikram said. “You must come away from here. Some of his friends may still be around. We must take you to the ground. The slow way, my friend. By elevator.”
He stood on quivering legs, and after a few steps he stopped and heaved up his lunch onto the pale gray floor, a hot, chunky stream that stank of bile and fear. Vikram gently guided him to the elevator. Sam couldn’t bear to look out the side until they had reached the bottom. Nor did he look off to his right, where a handful of men with large flat shovels were wordlessly collecting what remained of Ramesh.
Someone with a depleted first-aid kit hastily cleaned and bandaged the slash across his arm. The foreman glanced at the torn sleeve and reminded Sam that he would have to pay if he wanted a new uniform.
Back at the camp that night a friend of Vikram’s undid the bandage and applied a wet cotton rag with a warm poultice of salt, turmeric, and lemon juice. Vikram assured him that this was the best possible remedy. The cut was painful but superficial.
“You should not shower tonight,” Vikram added.
“To keep the bandage dry?”
Vikram shook his head.
“Ramesh’s friends. They will be waiting. To their minds you have now killed two of them. Your legend as the white jackal will only grow. You should talk to Zafar. Perhaps he can move you to another camp.”
But Zafar was not in the blockhouse. Apparently he was out for the entire evening, and the sullen Charbak, whose English wasn’t good to begin with, didn’t seem the slightest bit concerned when Sam explained his situation.
“It is for Zafar to decide,” he said quietly, turning the page of a newspaper.
Sam washed up as well as he could at the outdoor spigot, escorted by several men from his room, who had taken up his cause after seeing firsthand the madness of Ramesh. Throughout it he was aware of a huddle of large fellows eyeing him from the entrance to the showers.
“This cannot continue,” Vikram muttered.
“I need to send a message after dinner,” Sam said. “Maybe some of you could walk with me to the camera store so I can use the Internet.”
He pooled his food with Vikram and two other men, and they shared a dinner of fish and okra, stir-fried in a large skillet. One of the others added some spices. It was his best meal in days.
“Let us go now to the camera store,” Vikram said. “We should not return until just before lights-out.”
There were no further messages from Plevy—not that Sam expected any—but he was thrilled to find a reply from Laleh, sweet in its concern. It made him vaguely hopeful, although for exactly what he couldn’t have said. He answered by briefly describing the day’s events and his current predicament.
“Please tell Ali,” he wrote, “Zafar is no help.”
He wondered if Nanette had posted any new alerts. Ansen’s password offered the only possibility of finding out, but he wasn’t at all surprised by the response.
Access denied. Password invalid.
What was surprising was that he was then unable to exit the page. Either the dial-up connection was getting even slower or something else was happening. He tried various escapes, but nothing worked. Only a reboot would do the trick, and even that seemed slow in coming. He had to press the OFF button for several seconds before the machine finally gasped and the screen went blank. This, of course, sent the shopkeeper into a rage.
“No turn off! No turn off! You pay ten dirhams, please, for losing connection.”
He paid it, scowling, and left the store, but couldn’t shake the sense that he’d blundered. And even with his impromptu bodyguards, he felt like a marked man.
They got to the room with only a few minutes to spare. All was quiet. To no one’s surprise except Sam’s, Ramesh’s empty bed had already been filled by a replacement worker, who was tucking in the corners on a fresh set of sheets. Maybe the angry Bengalis would come up with a conspiracy theory for him as well.
Everyone settled in for the night. Vikram nodded reassuringly from his bunk. Then the lights went out. Sam lay awake for a while, startled by every noise and creak. He kept expecting the door to fly open, and Ramesh’s friends to barge in with belts and kitchen knives, or whatever else they used around here. But he was so exhausted that he soon gave way to the rhythms of the night, and was sleeping soundly. Not even the mice and the bugs that scampered across his legs in the dark could rouse him.
He came awake only when a strong hand clamped firmly and moistly onto his mouth. He kicked out with both legs, and struggled to raise himself, or cry out, but to no avail. From a rush of night air he knew that someone had opened the door, and in the distance he heard the sound of police sirens, moving closer. Some sort of scuffle was in progress around him, and there were angry voices. He kicked again in an absolute panic, and wrenched a hand free.
Then a rag came down across his nostrils, smelling strongly yet sweetly of chemicals, and within seconds he was fading from consciousness just as more hands were lifting him into the air. Next came a dreamlike sensation of falling, the air so thick that it arrested the speed of his plunge. The concrete floors of the building in the Marina area flashed past him, one by one. He tried to grab at them, but the fumes kept pushing him downward, with a host of shadows in pursuit.
His last thought was to wonder if he would ever reach the bottom.
18
The first thing Sharaf saw was the Minister, bending over his face to place a cool washcloth against the lump on his forehead. It stung. Sharaf winced.
“You’re conscious!”
“Where is everyone? What are you doing at the prison?”
“You’re at my villa, free and safe. For now, anyway.”
Sharaf tried to sit up but his head swam so he lay back on the pillow.
“I should phone the doctor, fetch him back here,” the Minister said. “He predicted you might soon be up and about. He advised that you stay put for a while.”
“How long have I been out?”
“Almost five hours.” He checked his watch. “Yes, five.”
The Minister wore an elegant and spotless kandoura. The room was like something in a top-notch hotel. Sharaf had never been in the man’s house—in fact, their only face-to-face meeting had occurred in an anteroom of Zabeel Palace—but he had seen it from the outside. Just about everyone in Dubai had, either in person or in a photograph. The huge, modernistic three-story villa, with its curved walls of stone and reflecting glass, stood out even among the other ostentatious homes in Jumeirah’s wealthiest corner.
Sharaf realized he was no longer wearing his prison garb. Someone had dressed him in a freshly laundered kandoura. The sheets were soft, lightly scented. He could easily have shut his eyes and slept all day, but too many questions were already on the prowl, and still more were lining up to join them as his life slowly regained focus.
“There was a riot,” he said, remembering. “The guards went crazy. I found a potential witness in there.”
“A riot? The warden only mentioned a small fight. You and some lifer with a red stripe.”
“The warden’s lying. He’s covering for his thugs.”
Sharaf gently removed the damp cloth from his forehead, then touched the tender lump at his hairline. It felt like a coconut was trying to force its way out of his skull. He again tried to sit up, and this time was able to prop against the headboard with minimal dizziness, although the lump throbbed violently.
“Easy, Sharaf. Easy.”
“Why did you bring me here?”
The Minister shrugged.
“You know how our hospitals are. The best that money can buy, but somehow never quite good enough when something bad happens. Why else would the royal family always seek treatment overseas anytime one of them sneezes?”
“The Iranian hospital isn’t so bad.”
“It’s first-rate. But considering some of the enemies you’ve made recently, well, I couldn’t be sure o
f your safety.”
“Ah, yes. Thank you.”
“You see? Your powers of judgment are still clouded. My personal physician predicted it. He is a German, trained in Boston, and he advises you to go slow for a while. I agree, of course. But I also have some advice.”
“And what would that be?”
“You must tell me where the American is. Assad is a lying fox, but I believe he knows something that you’ve been hiding from me.”
Sharaf had no way of knowing what the Minister might have heard or learned while he was unconscious, but as the fog continued to lift he tried to gauge what he might say without tripping himself up. Evasiveness was one approach, and his injury offered possible cover.
“What do you mean, sir? You’re confusing me.”
“Well, obviously no one has found him yet. But I’m guessing you have known all along where he is.”
“Look me in the eye, sir, because I am going to tell you the absolute truth.” To his surprise, the Minister actually leaned forward over the bed, gazing intently. “I haven’t the faintest idea where Mr. Keller might be. For all I know he might even have left the country.”
The beauty of it was that Sharaf hadn’t had to lie, not technically, which made his deception all the more convincing. He didn’t know where Keller was, not at the moment. The Minister eyed him a few seconds longer, then pronounced his judgment.
“I believe you. Up to now, I’ll admit, I wasn’t so sure. But just now, looking you in the eye, man to man, I am convinced you are being honest with me. But where do you think he has gone? Surely you must have an opinion?”
“Honestly?”
“Of course.”
“I believe he is dead. Or will be soon. Either by the hand of his own people, or Assad’s.”
“And where does that leave your case?”
“It complicates it, of course. That would mean five murders so far, counting the woman in the desert and the two Russian thugs. And I still don’t know what the rest of them are up to.”
Unfortunately, Sharaf believed his dire assessment of Keller’s prospects might actually be true. Unless the young man had managed to cross the border or put to sea during the past few days, his hopes for survival were slim. It saddened him, because he liked the fellow. But perhaps Ali had been able to pull something together.
Thinking of Ali reminded Sharaf of all the work he needed to do—phone calls, contacts, follow-ups. Adding to his anxiety was the date Charlie Hatcher had scribbled into his black book, underlined twice—“Monday, 4/14!” It had taken on the feel of a deadline, a point of no return, and now it was Saturday the 12th. Only two days left.
A rough list of tasks began taking shape in his head, and Sharaf experienced a palpable sensation of his mind snapping back into place, like a dislocated shoulder into its socket. His head seemed to be clearing by the second. Or so he thought until he tried to get out of bed. Immediately wobbly, he sat on the edge while he waited for the skewed room to go level.
“Sharaf, please!”
The Minister reached out to steady him, although his touch was tentative, uncertain. You could sense he dreaded the idea of having to pick Sharaf up off the floor. As generous as the man had been so far, he obviously drew the line at physical contact. Maybe he saw Sharaf’s ilk—a cop on a beat, when you got down to it—as beneath him. A subcaste of manual laborer, practically untouchable. Or maybe Sharaf was just dizzy.
He collected his wits as best he could and turned his attention to immediate priorities. First he would call Amina and Laleh. Then Ali, for a discreet update on Keller, provided one was available.
“I need to use your phone.”
“Your own phone is here.” He gestured toward the nightstand. “The prison gave me your belongings. The police said your car has been returned to your home.”
Sharaf’s phone was in a tidy pile along with his keys and wallet. His police uniform, which he had been wearing when he was arrested at the Seaman’s Majlis, was folded neatly on a console table at the foot of the bed. His boots were on the floor below.
He reached slowly for the phone, trying not to set off a new round of spinning. In doing so he realized that a folded sheet of paper was poking from the edge of his wallet. Someone had stuffed it in there with his cash. His curiosity got the best of him, and he took it out.
It was a handwritten note. He read it while the Minister watched with apparent interest.
“What is it, Sharaf?”
“A grocery list, from Amina. I’d forgotten it was there.”
He waved it quickly so the Minister wouldn’t see the writing, then folded it away before the lie became apparent. It was actually an address, scribbled in pencil. A location in Deira, just across the creek from where he had grown up. Below it was a message: “After we saw what happened to you, Khalifa and I decided you must be telling the truth. Good luck, inshallah. Nabil.”
“Inshallah” was underlined twice, a parting joke from Nabil, who must have bribed a guard to put the note with his belongings. Now he knew where to find the elusive Rajpal Patel, assuming Assad hadn’t beaten him to it.
“A grocery list?” the Minister said. “Are you sure that’s all it was?”
“Unless you know some other coded meaning for bananas, bread, and coffee.”
The Minister seemed on the verge of questioning him further when Sharaf’s cell phone bounded to the rescue, ringing loudly. Sharaf snatched it up so quickly that his head spun again. He paused to let things drop back into place before answering.
“Sharaf.”
“You’re up!”
It was Ali. Unfortunately the Minister didn’t seem inclined to leave the room anytime soon. Sharaf would have to guard his words, not an easy task in his current state of mind.
“Yes. I am sitting here with the Minister.”
“I see. But my news can’t wait. I’m afraid something has happened to Keller.”
“What, exactly?” Sharaf glanced at the Minister. He pointed at the phone and mouthed the name, “Ali al-Futtaim,” then smiled quickly, as if to say everything was just fine. The Minister nodded, but didn’t budge.
“Are you at liberty to talk about this now, Sharaf?”
“Maybe you’d better come and get me. I am at the Minister’s house.”
“Twenty minutes.”
“Excellent.”
He hung up, wondering what could have happened. Ali hadn’t sounded happy.
“Surely you’re not leaving?” the Minister said. “Not in your condition. It is imperative that my doctor must approve. He can be here in thirty minutes.”
“I’ll be gone in twenty.” Sharaf reached for his clothes. He wasn’t going to change back into uniform, not for the work he had in mind, but he would take it with him. “Have him phone me. You’ve got my number.”
“Look at you, you’re unsteady. It’s too soon. Lie back down.”
The Minister held out his hands, as if to insist, but he didn’t touch Sharaf.
“Really, sir. I’m fine.”
“Then in that case I suppose you’re strong enough for new marching orders.”
“New?”
“‘Amended’ is probably a better word. Things have changed.”
“Changed how? I thought you had backing from the palace?”
“I do.” The Minister seemed mildly affronted that Sharaf had even questioned his clout. “But certain, well, pressures are being applied. From other quarters that can’t be ignored. The American embassy, for one.”
“What sort of pressures?”
“I want you to hold off on things for a while. At least until the whereabouts of this Keller fellow are established. You look awful, you know. Let me get you a glass of water.”
The water helped. So did a wedge of bread smothered with honey. Maybe all Sharaf needed was food. Whatever the case, he was steadier by the time Ali’s black Mercedes pulled up the curving stone drive, weaving among four liveried servants who were at work on the Minister’s lawn.
<
br /> “I still say you should wait here for my doctor.”
“Look at it this way, Minister. The sooner I’m back at work, the sooner we’ll find out something about the missing American, so that I can resume my investigation. And I thank you. You have been most generous and compassionate.”
“It was the least I could offer, since you are working at my behest.”
“I’m grateful you still see it that way. And as long as that’s the case, could I ask one additional small favor?”
The Minister didn’t look thrilled, but he didn’t say no.
“There was an Emirati in my cell, a fellow named Nabil. He and his cousin Khalifa were jailed unjustly. Lieutenant Assad’s doing, I suspect, so perhaps you could intervene on their behalf. Also, if you can quietly ensure that someone seizes the cellblock video surveillance recordings from last night, then I’m certain you and the rest of the royal cabinet will find the contents quite revealing. Let’s just say that the prison is not being run in a manner worthy of Sheikh Mohammed. And with a few nimble moves you, not the ministers of justice or of interior, will be able to claim the privilege of being the one who set things aright.”
This prospect seemed to brighten the Minister’s mood, enough so that Sharaf was able to depart with his reluctant blessing.
Sharaf settled with gratitude into the leather upholstery of Ali’s Mercedes. By the time they were pulling onto the street he was feeling almost normal, and for the first time in days he allowed himself a fleeting moment of optimism. Time was tight, but perhaps his enemies were growing rushed, careless. He might yet have a chance.
Then Ali told him what had happened to Keller, making Sharaf wished he had simply stayed in bed.
19
A few hours earlier, a Frenchman, a Belgian, and an Emirati in a white kandoura stood in an office frowning over the body of Sam Keller, a death watch of tame-looking strangers.
“What do you think?” the Emirati asked in English.
“I think you killed him,” the Frenchman said.
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