It was the kind of New England night when the darkness itself seems even more black than its definition by scattershot lighting: A pool of gathered blackness whose depth seemed also a heavy weight. The little cracker box house at forty Spiers Road was in the part of Newton that just abutted West Roxbury in a housing development of hills and cul-de-sacs called Oak Hill Park. The house was vaguely shown in shadows from a streetlight high above it like a tiny nova. Null had parked the Buick on nearby Saw Mill Brook Parkway. He walked the quiet road, wary of police cars, but none drove by, not even a single, errant, late night car for that matter.
When Null reached the house, he circled it, peering through windows, gaps in shutters and shades, wary of motion detectors and of low lights indicating silent alarms. There were two cars in the driveway where before there had been none. Two adult shapes were huddled under the covers in the first bedroom, visible through the larger of two shade gaps. It was a possibility that Mr. Quinlan had moved back home once he knew of his daughter’s safe return. Or it might have been just a boyfriend. That last thought was dicey and doubtless had to be confirmed.
That would take a daytime visit.
Null moved furtively, gingerly, to where he presumed Shirley’s bedroom might be. He found the blind was entirely open and the streetlight that streaked in partially lit her head on the pillow showing half her face and that of some stuffed animal next to her that might have been either a dog or a moose.
He lingered much longer than he should have, watching Shirley sleeping contentedly through the open blind, unconsciously synchronizing his breathing with hers.
Diastole and systole, like the sea.
After a time Null left in the shadows, walking back to the Buick.
One car passed slowly by him.
It did not stop.
* * *
Null deplaned at Dubai International Airport just in time for the late afternoon call to prayer. The Airport interior was overly bright and postmodern with commercial middle eastern Sanskrit flourishes—brilliant, metallic and cavernously huge. It was busy with ornate installations as well as harried travelers, and its echoes were thunderous. Null traveled light as usual, but customs didn’t bother to so much as touch his carry-on bag. He was waved through deferentially, as if by magic.
A short, slim bearded man wearing Ray Ban sunglasses and a black Armani suit with a deep purple tie met him as he emerged from customs. He had a blinding, affable smile and flashed it at Null. He wasn’t carrying a sign, but he knew Null right away.
Null was dressed in a white linen Zegna suit and Panama hat.
His wounds and scars remained prominent.
“You are John Hunter, yes? Nice to see you, Mr. John. Was your journey at all comfortable?”
“It was fine. Assalamu alaikum.”
The man smiled at that and extended his hand. Null took his hand and shook it.
“Wa alaikum assalam, Mr. John. I am Mansour and I will be your driver for today. May I take your bag?”
“No, Mansour. It’s light.”
“Very good, Mr. John. Come with me to the VIP area where the limousine will be waiting.”
“Okay.”
“Not many Americans think to dress for the climate, Mr. John. Very savvy of you.” This statement contained a hint of sarcasm that Null missed entirely. Dark clothing commanded respect in the United Arab Emirates.
“Thanks.”
They walked for what seemed a long distance in silence, engulfed by the echoes and the cavernous busyness of the airport until they walked out into the implacable glare and arid emptiness of Dubai itself. The limousine was parked in an isolated area by itself, the engine running. It was black with tinted windows, a small flag flying the colors of the United Arab Emirates—red, black, green and white bars arranged like a test pattern. Mansour opened the door for Null and he was immediately hit by the air conditioned cool. Before he could react, they were underway.
The thoroughfare was empty and altogether void of life.
“Just because you know how to dress, Mr. John, does not mean it cannot be made cool for you American business types.”
“I see that. Are we headed for the palace, then?”
“Well, his Excellency doesn’t receive business visitors at the palace, unfortunately. You are right, though. His residence is at the Za’abeel Palace—very grand. Splendid. Perhaps he will give you a tour while you’re here, n’shallah.”
“Security must be tight.”
“Oh yes, very. Did you know that that is where his Highness, the Crown Prince of Dubai Sheikh Hamdan bin Mohammed bin Rashid Al Maktoum resides? Security is very heavy and very tight there. No worries about that, Mr. John.”
“Is he popular with the people?”
“Very much loved. They know him affectionately as Fazza. He is a very romantic poet and sportsman and can be followed quite easily on Instagram.”
“So where are we meeting his Excellency then?”
“In the tallest building in Dubai—an architectural marvel. We’ll be there in a few minutes. You know, Mr. John, that it’s actually the tallest building in the world.”
“Yes. The Burj Khalifa. I’ve heard of it.”
“You know, they’re building one to even exceed that, Mr. John. The Dubai Creek Tower, so stay tuned for that. You know, his Excellency is very eager to meet with you after what that terrible man called Null did to his beautiful business in Boston.”
“Yes, as you know, I’m here to fix that.”
“Which is all to the good, Mr. John. His Excellency is a man of very peculiar tastes and he does this business out of love, not just for the money, you understand.”
“Oh, completely. Security must be tight at the Burj as well.”
“Most definitely. Why should you worry? You will be protected for certain. And, of course, you couldn’t possibly have any weapons on you, of course.” And Mansour laughed at the thought of this little businessman wielding a gun.
“Tell me, Mansour, does Sheikh Hilal bin Rashid bin Mohammed Al Maktoum use a pencil to take notes during his meetings by any chance?”
Mansour laughed again at the absurdity of the question. “Now, why would he do something like that when he has computers and secretaries, Mr. John? Very amusing.”
“But we’ll be meeting alone.”
“About a matter as sensitive as this, yes, definitely, I would assume so.” He paused for a moment then added cheerily, “You know, just as a point of interest, Mr. John, his Excellency does keep a very nice collection of the famous Mont Blanc fountain pens in his private office, if that might interest you at all.”
Null sat silently for a few minutes, lulled by the even hum of the limousine cruising along the freakishly smooth and perfect pavement of the road. It was like riding a long, calming mantra. He leaned back into the soft cushion of the seat and replied almost absent-mindedly:
“That’ll do.”
* * *
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