16 Gaultier

Gaultier was in Dubai.

Gaultier detested Dubai. But when your business was selling illegal arms and mercenaries by the dozen, this was the new Casablanca. His clients didn't come for the waters; they came for the endless pockets of the sheiks, the indoor ski slopes and surfing pools, the camel rides and torch-lit Arabian feasts at the edge of the desert. And even though the faithful were called to prayer five times a day by a muezzin and just a simple kiss on the cheek might lead to an arrest, the whores were plentiful. Gaultier had just bargained with a lithe blonde from Minsk calling herself "Lisa" for a thousand dirhams to pleasure a retired American general looking for companionship in Sodom-sur-Mer.

He was seated in a large white leather booth at a club called SNOW (all crystal icicles and fluttering flakes floating from the ceiling) on the second floor of a brand-new hotel with an expansive window view of the Burj Khalifa. He himself was staying at the Fairmont, but the general and his two friends wanted to see the place a manicurist they'd met at the Dubai Mall had told them about. The woman indiscreetly left her phone number on a business card if they needed anything at all. The general, a grizzled man in his late fifties from Indiana, had the arrogance to think she was flirting with him. While at dinner, Gaultier had offered to find him a guide for the evening. The general, well along on his eighth Johnnie Walker Blue at one hundred dirham each, slapped Gaultier on the back and called him brother in arms. What happens in Dubai damn well stays in Dubai.

The general was off with Lisa, and Gaultier was alone now, drinking a glass of muscat from Frontignan. The taste recalling happy memories of home, so pleased to have found it on a wine list as large as a telephone book. But the nightclub held absolutely no interest for him as he waited for his last client meeting of the evening. At an enormous dance floor in the center of the club, a DJ dressed in a white kandura and red-checked shemagh played Arabic rap and made it rain with a handful of countless bills.

Gaultier checked his Rolex. The client, a go-between for the prince of Bahrain, was late as usual, and he signaled the waitress for one more muscat. A long line of waiters emerged from a side entrance holding aloft champagne topped with blazing sparklers. The seated guests started to clap and shout in unison.

He stifled a yawn. He'd barely slept since leaving Paris two days ago. All the blood in Collinson's flat an unpleasant but distant memory.

As he glanced about SNOW, he spotted a group of Western-looking men seated with women who he presumed were whores accepting the endless bottles of champagne. Russians. Gaultier detested Russians as much as he did being in Dubai. A man with Stalin's gray haircut and jet-black mustache stared in his direction and lifted a glass to Gaultier. The man wore a black silk T-shirt with large gold chain under a suede fringe coat like an American cowboy.

Gaultier looked away as the waitress arrived with a fresh glass of wine.

"Compliments of the gentleman," the waitress said.

"That's no gentleman."

"He's paid your tab for the night," she said. "And would like you to join their party."

Gaultier lifted his eyes to the woman. She smiled apologetically.

He looked at the drink and back to Anatoliy Zub.

"Please take the glass away."

"But, sir..."

"Take the wine and bring me the check," he said. "Please don't ask me again. I am not on the menu."

Gaultier was tired and said the last bit of it in French, sending her away with a flick of the wrist. But the waitress understood his tone and took away the muscat. He'd have a drink at the Fairmont bar before doing the whole thing again tomorrow, agreeing to take his prized general to a falconry exhibit at a desert preserve. The things he did to feed and clothe his six children, his wife, and two mistresses. Sometimes he thought of changing his name and grabbing one of his many passports and flying off to a nice little shack in Bora Bora. Perhaps Gauguin had the right idea.

Gaultier paid his tab and walked to the elevators, noting Zub's icy stare from his banquette. Zub's usual entourage of muscled bodyguards and prostitutes cavorted about him, the champagne bottles still popping and sparkling. Gaultier rode the elevator down to the lobby and walked out into the brutal heat of a Dubai night. The doorman flagged down a black car for him.

A black Lincoln pulled up and the doorman held the door wide. Gaultier tipped him again and climbed inside. "Fairmont."

He'd just pulled out his phone from his suit jacket when he noticed there was another man up front with the driver. The man in the passenger seat turned to him and politely pointed a gun in his direction. The lack of sleep and alcohol had made him stupid.

"Mr. Zub is offended you turned down his hospitality."

"I don't drink with men like Mr. Zub."

"Mr. Zub disagrees."

"Bordel del merde."

Anatoliy Zub was the kind of man who gave arms dealers a bad name. He was a gunrunner who'd crawled out of the old Soviet Union and made billions off its relics. A friend of Vlad's, he'd bought and sold arms from his fleet of old Antonov An-8s for years and years. Air Anatoliy. Gaultier had known the man since they'd fought on opposite sides in Angola and later Liberia. Zub had so much blood on his hands, he was practically dripping.

"Where are you taking me?"

"The airport," the man said. "We've already collected your luggage from your hotel."

"And may I ask where we are flying to?"

"For that, you will need to ask Mr. Zub," he said. "Perhaps you should have accepted that drink?"

Zub had a Gulfstream G-70 painted a slick and shiny black with a tan leather interior touched with gold. His people had forced Gaultier inside and offered him some champagne as they waited outside in their SUVs (all black of course) on the tarmac for Zub to arrive.

Gaultier finally relented and helped himself to a bottle of '96 Dom Rosé and a tin of Beluga, searching the galley for some toast. He was, after all, Mr. Zub's guest, and if Mr. Zub wanted to toss him out at eighty thousand feet, then he figured he might as well have a full and healthy stomach.

Two Russians resembling bears ambled into the plane and took a seat at a round table without so much as a glance. They knew Gaultier was unarmed and not a threat as they joked with each other in Russian, one showing photos of an unconscious naked woman to the other. Gaultier slipped the spoon back into the Beluga and spread it onto some dry toast. It was quite good, and the Dom Rosé was fantastic.

"Gaultier, Gaultier," a voice boomed. "Where is my slippery little Frenchman? Did he give you boys any trouble? Did you check his boot? He sometimes likes to keep a knife in the shaft."

It was true. But sadly, Gaultier hadn't worn boots tonight. He had on a pair of Gucci alligator loafers he'd bought earlier that day at the Dubai mall.

Zub was trying his best to look like an American cowboy, but he couldn't hide being an impossibly ugly Russian. The Stalin brush cut, the thick black mustache, the cold blue eyes that had a hint of Siberia in them. He removed his fringe jacket and tossed it onto one of the bear's heads. The bear grunted and Zub made his way to the back of the plane, where Gaultier sat with a half-empty flute of champagne, the bubbles drifting to the top.

"The rosé?" he said. "You have excellent taste. So very expensive. But of course. You are French. The French are such snobs. The last time I was in Lyon, I ate at one of your bouchons and became sick from the feet of veal. Even my stomach isn't that strong. Ugh."

"I appreciate these little games as much as anyone," Gaultier said. "But I have clients and much business to conduct. You might have just called."

"I offered you a drink," Zub said. "And you tossed it in my face."

"Metaphorically."

"What does that mean?"

"It means your English is not so good," Gaultier said, lifting the flute and taking a sip. "Is this about the prince? You can have him. He likes to be wined and dined, but his orders are paltry. You'll find out."

"What prince?" Zub said, taking a seat opposite Gaultier. His black silk T-shirt was skintight, showing off a hammer and sickle tattoo on his right bicep. If the man was any more Russian, he'd have a scrawl of Khrushchev's face on his penis.

"I thought you were going to retire," Gaultier said. "I heard you opened some kind of cowboy store in New York where you sold ten-gallon hats and lassos."

"A western wear store," he said. "Yes, yes. We also sell saddles and boots. It was my dream. You should come. I will give you ten percent off a hat. You would look good in a hat, Gaultier, like Depardieu in La Chevre. The goat."

"I detest Depardieu."

Zub shrugged and reached for the bottle of champagne. He snapped his fingers at one of the bears and he went to the galley for a glass, pouring it for Zub and topping off Gaultier's. Gaultier took a long sip.

"Shall we cut the bullshit, partner," Zub said. "I know you saw Jack Dumas in Cairo."

Gaultier shrugged and sipped some more.

"He hung you upside down over the Nile?" Zub said. "Ha ha. I would have loved to see this. You, the dapper little Frenchman, dangling by your ankles."

Gaultier leveled his eyes at Zub. He wasn't proud of the memory or being mocked, but now he knew that all roads led back to Peter Collinson. Did Dumas work for Zub? Surely not. The one-armed man was a brute but not a moron. There was a limited life expectancy to working for Anatoliy Zub, something that Dumas would've understood.

"How is the caviar?"

"How is all Beluga?"

"You sent Dumas to Memphis, Tennessee," Zub said. "Help me information, give me Memphis, Tennessee. You know that song? Chuck Berry. Wonderful."

Again, Gaultier didn't answer. He watched as one of the bears left the plane, leaving just him, Zub, and the single bear. He felt the cold bit of the knife against his forearm. A butter knife wasn't exactly an old school KA-BAR, but it would do.

Zub held out the palm of his hand and nodded toward the knife. "Go on and give it to me," he said. "Dimitri was watching you on the camera. He was more worried about the Dom. But I told him you were my guest. Such an important man. The great Gaultier. Legionnaire. Leader of armies. Defender of Africa."

"What do you want?" he said. "My stomach is starting to turn."

Zub leaned forward into his seat. He shrugged in that way that all Russians do, the thick gold chain hanging from his thick neck. "Ten days ago, I spared Dumas his life. He had brought me container upon container of junk brought from the US military in Afghanistan. I was promised Javelins, PHAR rifles, Reaper drones. But no! Worn-out M4s, old grenades. Boxes and boxes of useless ammunition. Why? Why had Collinson sent a man like Dumas to bestow such an insult?"

"Because he wanted Dumas dead?"

Zub snapped his fingers and pointed at Gaultier, smiled, and drained his glass. The bear, confused over the snap, rushed over to refill his glass, but stopped short seeing Gaultier hadn't touched a bit more. Zub told the man to sit.

"The transaction had already been made," Zub said. "After so many times with Collinson. Same accounts. Same Bahamian banks. Of course, you know this. As I had my gun in Dumas's mouth, I wondered, Why would Peter do this to me? What could be worth making such a deal for absolutely nothing? To rob from Anatoliy Zub? Why would he do this?"

"And so you sent Dumas to me."

"Then I sent Dumas to Memphis," Zub said, draining the glass again. "To make things right. And now I am no closer to finding my money or finding Collinson."

Gaultier took in a deep breath, stood up in the private plane, and straightened his skull cuff links. "Well," he said. "You have no need of me, Anatoliy. That's all I know. Thank you so much for the hospitality."

The second bear entered. Gaultier glanced out the window as the jetway was rolled away. Nothing but the tarmac and bright blue lights and an endless desert beyond. It was a lonely site, the entire space around them an endless void.

"You," Zub said, smiling. "You know so much more, my friend. We will go to Memphis together. Tonight. You will make this right for Anatoliy."

"I won't be of any help," Gaultier said, wondering if Zub's goons had found the mobile phone he'd taken from Peter Collinson's flat.

"Dumas said you assisted Peter getting some cargo out of Istanbul?" he asked. "I think that cargo is rightfully mine."

The plane began to move. The bears up front put a movie onto a flat-screen, two naked women taking the clothes off a famous American billionaire sprawled on a luxury bed. As they started to spit and urinate on him, Gaultier turned his head in disgust.

"Do you remember General Mombu?" Zub asked.

"But of course."

"Good," Zub said, standing and walking to fetch a humidor and a lighter.

The lighter was the size of a grenade and wrapped in a thick, oily leather. Zub opened the humidor and Gaultier selected a cigar, reaching for the lighter and flicking on the flame. The leather felt rough against his hands.

"That lighter is made of Mombu's... how you say?"

"‘How you say' what?"

"Nut sack."

Gaultier set down the lighter and wiped his right hand on his suit pants. Zub bellowed out a deep laugh as he sat down again and buckled his seat belt. The Gulfstream began to taxi and Gaultier, understanding his position, did the same. Zub helped himself to what was left of the caviar, spreading it thick along the toast.

"We stop in Amsterdam and New York," Zub said with a full mouth.

"I know nothing about Collinson or any of his cargo."

"I've always wanted to see Memphis," Zub said, brushing the caviar off his brushy black mustache. "Have you been to Graceland? I'd very much like to go. Elvis could be a cowboy. He was very good in Charro. You've turned your back on yesterday. Betrayed a man who swore he'd make you pay. That is Elvis. You like Elvis, no?"

Gaultier knew this was going to be a very long flight.