Among the high-wattage villas of Dubai’s Al Safa neighborhood, the Beacon of Light stood out more like a guttering candle-three stories of smudged stucco on a shaggy lawn, with a dented blue van at the curb.
The neighbors’ bigger gripe was the procession of sullen men who regularly cruised past or, worse, parked in the rear alley, idling their engines with the windows up while waiting for runaway spouses to show their faces at the windows.
The shelter regularly employed a guard, but on this particular afternoon Sharaf was surprised to see two of them lurking beneath the drooping palms, and both were heavily armed. They shouldered automatic weapons like island defenders awaiting an amphibious assault. Sharaf heard the unmistakable click of a safety as Sam and he approached.
“Easy,” Sharaf called out, showing his hands. “We’re friends.”
He seemed to be saying that everywhere lately. “We’re expected,” Sam added.
A guard patted them down and escorted them up the steps. A woman of uncertain nationality answered their knock. Looming behind her was a third armed man.
“We have an appointment with Mrs. Halami,” Sharaf said.
“Wait here.”
On the way over from Deira, Sharaf had tried to prepare Sam for the local phenomenon known as Yvette Halami. She was a Frenchwoman who had married an Emirati and moved to Dubai during the early years of the economic boom. A converted Muslim, she covered her head but never held her tongue, especially on the issue of how women were treated in Dubai.
She chain-smoked, knocked back espressos all day, conducted much of her business in English, and was forever answering a cell phone that rattled and rang like one long emergency. Her combative nature generated like-minded press coverage. Depending on which local paper you read, she was either a selfless advocate for the voiceless or a grandstanding loudmouth whose main goal was to embarrass men in general, and Emirati men in particular. Several of Sharaf’s colleagues couldn’t utter her name without cursing.
Almost any native-born woman would have long ago faded into the background against that kind of opposition. She seemed to revel in it, which only infuriated her enemies more.
Sharaf had largely been won over to Yvette’s cause by Laleh, and also by the assault victims he had interviewed over the years at the shelter. He had seen firsthand what happened when violent husbands, unpunished, were allowed to reclaim their wives from the law simply by signing a form promising they’d never do it again. He knew of one man who had done this eight times; he had seen all eight copies of the form-but no criminal convictions-stored neatly in the fellow’s police file.
Sharaf was ambivalent about Halami herself. He believed she was one reason his daughter had become so rebellious. For every hour Laleh volunteered at the Beacon of Light-preparing meals, manning phones, directing media strategy-she seemed to emerge that much sharper around the edges.
Halami appeared from around a corner, cell phone in her left hand, cigarette in her right. Her greeting was typically abrupt. No names, no salutations, just a blunt question in a burst of cigarette smoke.
“Were you followed?”
“If we had been, we’d be in custody by now,” Sharaf answered. “What’s with all the security?”
“You wouldn’t ask if you’d seen some of the goons who’ve been coming around. And I’m not talking about husbands. Pimps and their muscle. A very bad business.”
“Does this have anything to do with-?”
“Please. Don’t mention her name here. Follow me.”
She led them past her office to a makeshift canteen, where one woman was reading and another was taking popcorn from a microwave. Halami spoke to them in Arabic, and they exited without a word. Then she lit a fresh cigarette and responded to a beep by checking a text on her phone.
“Some flunky from the Ministry of Health was in my office yesterday asking about the same girl. Immigration came the day before that. Same name. Basma, Basma, Basma.” She moved her right hand like a yakking puppet. “For all I know, one or both of those fellows planted something near my desk to listen in, so I figured it was safer talking here. Any idea who’s behind all this interest?”
The heads of both agencies were allies of Assad’s, and rivals of the Minister, but Sharaf didn’t want to get bogged down in politics.
“The same people who are making life miserable for us, I’d imagine.”
“You know, it’s a good thing you mentioned Charlie Hatcher, or I’d have suspected you were one of them.” She gestured toward Sam. “Who’s this one?”
Sam answered for himself.
“Sam Keller. I was a friend of Charlie’s.”
“I am sorry for your loss. Charlie was our friend. Why are you dressed like that?”
Sam looked to Sharaf for help.
“The same reason I’m out of uniform. Let’s just say that we’ve had an interesting few days. Where is Basma?”
Halami’s phone rang. She answered instantly, ignoring them.
“Yes? Of course, but where? Ethiopia is my guess. They’re from villages on the brink of starvation. Someone puts up an Emirates Air poster with a nice photo of Dubai, and all you have to do is offer a plane ticket. An easy recruitment. Sure. Keep me posted.”
No sooner had she hung up than the phone rang again.
“Yes? Where? Good, very good.” She laughed with relish. “Another one bites the dust. We should have a party. Good. Later, then.”
She hung up. Sharaf was getting annoyed.
“Could you maybe shut that damn thing off for a minute?”
“No. They are my clients, Anwar. You’re just a cop, even though your daughter is one of the world’s great human beings, spoiled or not.”
“What can you tell me about Basma?”
“Our Jeanne d’Arc, you mean, if you will pardon the Christian metaphor. Sometimes I am more French than Muslim.”
“I noticed. Why a martyr? Is she dead?”
“Alive, but only by her own wits. I will leave it to Basma to answer your other question. Where did you hear her name? I doubt Charlie would have told you.”
Sam spoke up.
“It was in Charlie’s datebook, with a number for this place. She was listed next to Tatiana Tereshkova.”
“Another of our contacts from the trade. But I am worried about her, too. I can’t seem to find her.”
“Found, I’m afraid,” Sharaf said. “Several days ago.”
Halami lowered her cigarette.
“Dead?”
“She’d been shot. They dumped her in the desert.”
He said it more harshly than necessary, the very stereotype of the uncaring cop, and he felt bad about it as soon as he saw Halami’s reaction. She put a hand to her mouth and emitted a small cry, blinking twice. Her phone beeped, but she didn’t even glance at it.
“It’s where they take all of them,” she said quietly. “They just throw them on the ground and leave them for the birds. Tatiana was one of the Russian originals, from those Aeroflot caravans in the early nineties. Worked her way up through the system, then got disgusted with it. She was the reason Basma got away, she and Charlie. I suppose someone found out.”
“She was with Hatcher when he was shot.”
“Oh, dear. I didn’t know.”
“Hardly anyone does. And I doubt you will read about her in the papers anytime soon, not if some of my colleagues have their way.”
“Which is why I cannot trust you with the knowledge of Basma’s whereabouts. Not if they are after you as well.”
“Then I suppose we will never find out who killed Tatiana.”
She eyed them carefully.
“Charlie was the only man Basma trusted. Ever since he was killed she has been certain she will be next. That’s why we are hiding her. But she will not speak to any man. It’s a fact. You will have to deal with it.”
“We’re operating under a deadline. Finding a suitable female officer will not be as easy as you think.”
Halami smiled ruefully and flicked ashes into a Styrofoam cup.
“You know, Anwar, for such an intelligent man, you are sometimes a bumbling oaf. Because we both know of a woman who is not only suitable but is also readily available, and someone I trust.”
Sharaf saw where she was headed, and moved to cut her off.
“That is not an option. Laleh does not participate in my business.”
“More’s the pity. She is brilliant and compassionate-the very combination necessary to induce Basma to tell her story. You say she is not an option? Sir, she is your only option. Like it or not, she is already a part of this business, simply by her role in ours.”
Sharaf was exasperated. First Laleh, now Halami-both of them ordering him around, and taking events well beyond his control. Fine, let them. Why not just walk out of this place while his pride was intact? With the Minister’s help, he might still organize a team to raid Monday’s delivery at Jebel Ali.
The problem with that approach was that the scheme’s principals-Assad, the mobsters, the American woman-would be able to scramble right out of the net. He only had Liffey on tape, and even what he had heard of that conversation was vague enough for Liffey to argue that he was talking about some other commodity altogether, and with another bribe it might even be convincing to a judge. Sharaf still needed to dive deeper.
The other problem, greater yet, was that Halami was right. It was midafternoon Saturday. Delivery was Monday. There was no time for other options. Laleh was the perfect choice. The cop in him knew this, even as the father continued to shut his eyes and shake his head.
He was jolted from thought by the sound of loud pounding on the shelter’s front entrance. Halami moved to a window and flicked back a curtain, frowning. Then a woman poked her head into the canteen from the hallway.
“It’s the police,” she said. “A Lieutenant Assad. He says it is urgent.”
Halami glanced at Sharaf in alarm, and with a hint of mistrust.
“What, you think I called him?” Sharaf said. “He’s probably looking for Basma, just like me. But if he finds us, we’re finished.”
There was shouting from the entrance-Assad’s voice ordering someone to search the house. They had to get moving, but Halami was blocking the way, still studying his face. Smoke curled from her cigarette like the signal of an impending decision, and for a moment Sharaf was convinced she would throw them to the wolves.
Then she yanked at his sleeve and shoved him into the hallway toward the rear of the house, while whispering harshly, “Take the stairs to the top floor. Then the ladder to the roof. Go!”
He ran, Sam followed. There was more shouting from the front room, and the house was in an uproar. Women were running out of their bedrooms, moaning and holding their hands to their faces. The commotion gave them the cover to make it up to the next floor before any police reached the stairwell. By the time they got to the third floor the chaos below was louder, with heavy thumps of moving furniture, and the indignant cries of the residents. When Sharaf reached the landing he doubled over, dizzy and out of breath. Sam tugged at his shoulder.
“We’ve got to keep going,” Sam said. “It’s over there.”
A fire escape ladder was bolted to the wall at the end of a dim hallway, leading to a trapdoor in the ceiling. Sam climbed the first three rungs and flattened his palms against the door, wrenching it open with a metallic shriek while Sharaf watched from below. He threw it back like a hatch and burst into the sunlight, climbing onto a flat gravel roof. Then he thrust a hand back through the opening for Sharaf as he watched the big man struggle upward, hands sweaty on the rungs.
“Here,” Sam called.
Sharaf reached higher as a shoe slipped. He took Sam’s hand as footsteps echoed up the stairwell from the second floor. Sam pulled hard, boosting Sharaf past the last rung until he landed on the rooftop in a heap. They shut the trapdoor behind them.
“Stay low,” Sharaf said. “We’re too exposed.”
They moved in a crouch to keep from being seen from the street, and headed for a massive air-conditioning unit that sat like a blockhouse in a far corner. Sharaf was breathing heavily. His swollen forehead throbbed, and his head began to swim. He paused, and must have wobbled, because Sam was quickly at his side, coaxing him toward the far side of the blockhouse cube. They sagged onto the warm gravel behind the metal box, which sighed and grumbled as the big air-conditioning unit throbbed against the eighty-five-degree heat.
“Good thing we parked around the corner,” Sam said.
“An even better thing that we didn’t bring the Camry. In this neighborhood it would stand out like a rickshaw.”
Ten minutes passed. They could hear little of the ruckus unfolding below, and after a while Sharaf began to hope that they could ride out the storm. He listened for voices from the yard, expecting that at any second the policemen would begin trooping back toward their vehicles.
Instead he heard the groan of the trapdoor as it opened on the far side of the roof.
“Shit!” Sam whispered.
Sharaf shifted uncomfortably, his rump sliding on the gravel. He supposed they could still try running. They could even jump, although the fall would probably knock him senseless, especially in his current condition. A weary part of him braced for surrender. Wasn’t that bound to be their eventual fate, anyway?
Then he glanced at Sam, the young man unwittingly pulled into all this. He saw the look of eager desperation, the urgency of youth. And that made him think of Laleh, her concern, and her efforts to help. He rose into a crouch, settling on the balls of his feet.
Footsteps crunched slowly toward them across the gravel. A shadow slid into view on their left, followed by a khaki police uniform. The officer gasped. So did Sam. But Sharaf, to his own surprise, nearly laughed in relief.
It was Sergeant Habash, the ambitious young Palestinian and squad room grunt. Of all the policemen who could have discovered them, Habash was the luckiest possible choice, given the ease with which Sharaf had always manipulated him. Not that Sharaf had much leverage at the moment. Nor did he have much time to employ it.
“Hello, Sergeant. I assume you’re looking for the same girl as we are.”
“You’ll do as a consolation prize,” Habash said.
“So that’s what you’re opting for, then? A brief moment of glory on behalf of Lieutenant Assad, who will promptly claim all the credit for himself and forget about you? Unless I tell him how easily this fellow Keller got away from you last Monday.”
“But that was your doing!”
“I doubt he’ll see it that way. But there is an alternative, of course. What if I were to promise that, if you give me the chance, this fellow Keller will be dead by this evening, drowned in Dubai Creek? Don’t worry, he doesn’t speak a word of Arabic, so he has no idea what I’m saying.”
“You would do that?”
“Of course. He is excess baggage, an embarrassment for us both. Killing him will solve your problem and mine. And the longer I’m away from the office, the less likely it is that I’ll tell them how you let him escape, or how wretchedly bad your English is in all those press translations. Unless, of course, you’re itching to be back on the street, walking your old beat in Deira.”
Habash’s conflicted expression told Sharaf he was making progress. But before the sergeant could answer, the trapdoor slammed again, and another voice called out.
“Sergeant, what are you doing over there?”
It was Lieutenant Assad. The air-conditioning cube still blocked Sam and Sharaf from view. For Habash, for all of them, it was the moment of truth.
“Did you hear me, Sergeant? What’s taking so long? Is she up here or not?”
Sharaf smiled at the wording. Even a fellow as dim as Habash couldn’t possibly have missed the opening Assad had just given him.
“No,” Habash shouted back. “She’s not up here.”
“Then stop wasting my time! We’re ready to leave.”
“Yes, sir.”
And, just like that, Habash turned and left, without even having to tell a lie.
The trapdoor slammed shut. The rooftop was silent. Sharaf sagged in relief against the air-conditioning unit, feeling its vibrations like a massage across his sweating back. A few minutes later they heard voices in the yard, followed by the slamming of car doors and the rev of engines. Two vehicles pulled away from the curb.
“Too close,” Sam said. “What do we do now?”
Sharaf considered the question carefully, thinking only as a policeman, and he wasn’t at all pleased with the answer that sprang to mind. He voiced it, all the same, as if merely testing its theoretical possibilities.
“We telephone my daughter, and put her to work. It is insane, it is outrageous, and, worst of all, it is exactly what she will want. But Halami is right. Right now, she is our only option.”