A Violent Peace

Chapter 2

2

Five days later he was standing in line at the Emirates counter at the airport. He’d quit work two days before, and had had a little party at the Barrelhead last night, with Pam and Joey and a couple of the guys from work. He was pleased by the air of mystery he’d projected.

“No, I can’t say too much about it, I’m afraid; the project’s a complete secret.”

“No, even the location is secret. Somewhere in the Arabian Peninsula is all I can tell you.”

The secrecy had stemmed from necessity—he had no clue what he’d be doing—but Pam had looked at him with a curiosity and respect he relished, and he tried to keep his expression taut and world-weary.

Now, though, as he stood in line gripping the handle of his suitcase, he was terrified. At least the check had gone through, he told himself. He’d have padding and the means to survive for a year or so. He might do some traveling if things didn’t work out. Still, the images of violence on the news—the bombings, the beheadings, the massed hordes with raised weapons—flickered through his mind. Though he knew Dubai was nowhere near the battle zones, he had a sudden panicky notion that the plane would land amid lobbed mortars and black-veiled, Kalashnikov-toting militants. He pictured himself, in his Vans and gray hoodie, sprinting across the tarmac, chased by a blood-spattered ninja wielding a scimitar.…

The woman behind the counter called “Next, please,” and he shook his head slightly to clear it and stepped forward.

He’d flown on some fancy business trips to Europe for Orbotica, but he was unprepared for Emirates First Class on the A380. He had a tiny private suite on the upper deck, with a fold-out, full-length bed. He could order anything he wanted off of an extensive menu, and there was even a bar where a few business suits and bejeweled women sipped cocktails.

Soon he had plates of tidbits scattered around his mattress—coconut-crusted shrimp, skewers of spicy lamb, sushi, exotic fruits. He tried to watch a movie, but instead, spent most of his time staring out the window at the shifting cloudscape. In some places they seemed brushed in one direction, as if by a gigantic comb; in others they were stirred to a lather. He imagined he could read his future in their slow metamorphoses.

Toward the end of the fifteen-hour flight, he took a shower and put on a fresh uniform of jeans and a maroon T-shirt, and then waited in his suite, which felt now like a tiny jail cell. He hadn’t slept at all.

A blue-suited attendant pulled him out of the passport-control line. “Mr. Ezra Quinn? Marhaba. Welcome to Dubai. You will come with me, please.”

As the queuing passengers glared, he followed the attendant to an unmarked side door and entered a sumptuous little lounge. Coffee and croissants stood on a table to one side and soft jazz played on the speakers. The attendant took his passport and gestured at the coffee. He shook his head—despite his lack of sleep, his brain was buzzing and he didn’t need the caffeine.

Within a minute the attendant was back with his passport, and Quinn followed him through a hallway and out a door into the warm night, which was slightly scented with diesel fumes. Beneath a row of round lights, a woman stood beside a black stretch BMW with tinted windows. She was wearing a charcoal suit and red heels, and her hair was like a spill of oil, harboring rainbows. When she saw him, she smiled and swept her hair back with one hand and came toward him.

“Ezra Quinn,” she said, as if he were a long-lost friend from high school.

He took her proffered hand. Despite the warmth of the night, her fingers were cool. Her perfume enveloped him: something exotic and slightly smoky that seemed distilled from her dusky skin.

“I hope your journey was not too tiring?”

“It was fine,” he said, a little tongue-tied. He wasn’t used to talking to someone this elegant. Even in the highest-level meetings in San Francisco, you’d still find lugs in sweatshirts and sneakers, hair matted from the pillow.

“My name is Leila. Leila al-Seifi. I am the personnel manager for Azure Oasis, and I will be your hostess in Dubai for the next few days. We are so pleased that you have agreed to join us at Azure Oasis, Mr. Quinn. Now, if you will accompany me in the vehicle, we will go to your hotel.” Her accent was impeccably English, like that of a character in a Merchant Ivory film.

In the BMW, she sat across from him and clicked open the door of a small refrigerator to her left, revealing a row of bottles. “Would you care for a drink?”

He shook his head. “They gave me plenty on the flight. Too much, actually.”

He pressed a fist to his chest and grinned at her. She smiled back.

The car purred into traffic and he peered out beyond the passing neon toward the spires of Dubai, glittering on the horizon. The breathtaking spindle of the Burj Khalifa stretched over them like a rocket trail tapering into the stars.

“We will give you several days to get acclimated,” Leila said. “To get over jet lag and accustom yourself to the city. And please let us know your preferences. There is little that we cannot provide.”

Quinn glanced at her. At the moment, he thought, all he wanted was to drive around a new city in this sumptuous car and listen to her voice.

Only once as they drove into the city was the spell of spicy perfume and opulence and glitter broken. They were creeping along in traffic, passing a row of jewelers—watches and necklaces sparkling under pin lights—and in the shadow beneath the overhang of a shop window, he glimpsed a young girl and boy. They were sitting on a flattened carton, and had a small meal laid out before them on a handkerchief: a bruised banana, five dates, and a loaf of pita bread. As they passed, the girl took up the bread and broke it and handed the larger half to her brother. Then, abruptly, she raised her eyes, dark and luminous and intelligent, and seemed to look directly at him, though he knew she couldn’t see him behind the smoky glass. Why had she looked up? What was she thinking? He raised a hand to the glass for a moment, and then let it drop.

The Burj Al Arab lay on its own little peninsula in the Persian Gulf, its front a sail blown toward the land. The lobby, with its fountain like intricate basketry woven of water and its scalloped tiers of hallways, was filled with Chinese, turning in slow circles with their iPads held over their faces like rectangular masks. Quinn guessed a planeload had just come in.

He would have lingered, but Leila took his arm and walked him past the throngs and through the gleaming gold doors of an elevator. He could sense the men in the room swiveling to watch their passage. On the forty-seventh floor, the doors opened and she led him to a two-story suite at least four times the size of his San Francisco apartment. He went over to the window and looked down over the sea, so far below the breakers were thin, wavering chalk lines scrawled on the black, and he could have blotted out a liner with his thumb.

“Whoa!” he said, turning back into the room. “Pretty… massive,” and instantly told himself to shut up. His bags were being brought in by a porter, whom Leila dismissed with the back of her hand.

She took from her voluminous purse an iPhone and a svelte silver MacBook and laid them on a table.

“These are yours to keep,” she said. “You will find my number in the phone. Please call at any time. I will be waiting. Should you get hungry, there are nine restaurants in the hotel. I would note that some of them have a dress code. You will find a full complement of clothing and accouterments in your size in the wardrobe.” She extended a hand to lacquered doors. “Perhaps, once you have rested and eaten, you will give me a call and we can talk some more?”

He nodded mutely.

“All right then. Once again, welcome to Dubai, Mr. Quinn. I trust you will have a pleasant stay here.”

She turned on her red heels, her hair following more sluggishly. And then she was gone, though her perfume lingered on his palate like a drug.