They are not to disturb the Etoile Adiona guests.
Maggie heads outside, where a police detective with a big mustache waits for her. Bob is there too. “Don’t do this,” he tells her. “It won’t go well.”
She should have listened.
Big Mustache gets right into it:
“So you say you saw a stabbing, is that right? On a crowded dance floor? But no one else saw it? No one else reported it? Has anyone been reported injured? No? How come? Is there a body anywhere? Has anyone been reported missing? You say it was dark, only a strobe light — yet you saw all this clearly and no one else did? Are you sure? Are you sure you didn’t hallucinate it? By the way, how many drinks have you had? Did you take any drugs? Should we run a blood test to be certain? Oh, and please tell me — why are you here? Alone. In Dubai. What is the purpose of your visit to Dubai? Where did you fly in from? Oh, I see — you flew in on a private plane from Gelendzhik in Russia. Why would an American be in Gelendzhik? And are you in Dubai on your own? Are you here as a tourist? On business? What exactly are you doing in Dubai?”
At some point, Maggie sees the futility — and the danger. Big Mustache keeps asking what she is doing in Dubai, and the real answer, which she is now actively evading, is “probably something illegal.” She hasn’t looked up the rules, but most countries require licensing and authorizations to perform surgery, and there is no reason to think Dubai does not. So she stops talking to Big Mustache.
In the car, Bob says, “Not really smart.”
“What, I should have said nothing?”
“What did you think was going to happen, Maggie? That they’d close down the club and turn on the houselights and, what, search everyone in it?”
“I saw a man stabbed.”
He shakes his head. “Charles vouched for you, but I should have known.”
“You know Charles Lockwood?”
“Of course.”
“Do you know—?”
“That’s all I’m going to say on the matter, Maggie.”
The car vrooms back up into the glass elevator.
Maggie asks, “What time are the surgeries tomorrow?”
“Today.”
“What?”
“Not tomorrow. Today. You know it’s four a.m. The surgery was originally scheduled to be today at two p.m.”
“I’ll be ready.”
Bob shakes his head. “No, that isn’t going to happen.”
“Why not? I’ve done surgeries far more complicated on no sleep while the enemy dropped bombs. I can handle—”
“I’m sure you can do them standing on your head,” Bob says. “But I’m going to advise the family against it.”
“Why?”
He turns to her. “You have to see that there are big-time repercussions for what you did tonight.”
“I reported a crime.”
“And in doing so, you’re now on the Dubai police’s radar. There are reasons why we demand discretion, one of which is that practicing medicine, especially surgery, without proper local UAE licensing is prohibited — even if the surgeon has the necessary licenses in their home country, which, let’s face it, you do not.”
Maggie has no reply to that.
“So here’s the thing,” Bob continues. “As long as you don’t do the surgeries, no laws have been broken. You’re just a houseguest. That’s what I’m going to remind the family — that currently there is no exposure. However, the moment you slice open a patient...”
“I get it,” Maggie says.
Bob gives her a tight smile as the car reaches the apartment. “Thank you for understanding.” He opens his car door. “I have to make a few calls, but I should be able to get you on a plane in the next two or three hours.”
“No,” Maggie says.
Bob turns and looks at her.
“I’m not done in Dubai,” Maggie says.
“You plan on staying?”
“I can get a hotel room—”
“No, that’ll look weird too.” Bob shakes his head. “So what is your plan?”
“I’m meeting a doctor at Apollo Longevity at ten a.m.”
When Maggie gets into her room, she calls Charles Lockwood to fill him in on what happened. Charles listens and then says, “Sounds like Ivan Brovski is making a move against his boss.”
“Doesn’t add up,” Maggie says.
“How do you figure?”
“If Ivan Brovski wanted Oleg Ragoravich dead, why wait until after the surgery? Why not, I don’t know, bring in your own anesthesiologist and poison Oleg during it?”
“Jesus, you’re dark.”
“I’m just trying to think like these guys.”
“Maybe Brovski acted because of the surgery.”
“How so?”
“Can we both agree that Oleg Ragoravich wasn’t getting cosmetic surgery to start male modeling?”
“We can,” Maggie says.
“So Ragoravich wanted to disguise himself.”
“And then, with his face still not healed, he runs away?”
“Hmm, you’re right. It makes no sense.”
They come up with no better theories for now. Charles promises to investigate and see what he can find out about Oleg Ragoravich’s current whereabouts.
“Let me know how it goes at Apollo Longevity,” Charles says.
When they hang up, Maggie heads into the shower. After she towels off, she stands in front of the full-length mirror and does a little medical self-examination. Her kidneys hurt. A lot. But there’s no blood in her urine. Lots of bruises from the scuffle, but no broken bones or internal injuries. At least, none she sees. It’s still early. There isn’t much pain right now, but there probably will be in a few hours. Nothing she couldn’t handle with some light medication.
She slips under the covers, but her nerves are too raw and jangled to sleep. Soon she will be back at Apollo Longevity. She hates that place. She swore she’d never go back. But there’s no choice now.
Or is there a choice?
She doesn’t need to do this. She could just go home. Her conversation with Porkchop still echoed:
“...I need to follow this through, Porkchop.”
“No, you don’t...”
Porkchop was right.
She could just leave right now. Her crusading days are over. She didn’t come into this fight on her own — she was dragged here by lies and manipulation.
Nothing good will come of this in the end.
At least, not for Maggie.
She knows that nothing she does now will bring Marc back. She can just go home and live her life — life? what life? — and forget all about this.
But no, not anymore. Like it or not, there is no way she can walk away.
She has to see it through.
Chapter Twenty-One
“Wow,” Steve Schipner says, “this is really great work, Doctor McCabe.”
They are in an examination room. Steve wears a white lab coat. His name is stenciled in below the Apollo Longevity name and logo. To his credit, Steve examines Nadia with professionalism, discretion, and respect. It’s as if he’s a completely different person in here. His voice when he speaks to Nadia is kind, understanding, inviting. He listens to her, pays attention, responds appropriately, asks the right questions. Despite Nadia’s stunning looks — and what could be viewed by some as the salacious medical reason they are here — Steve never, not once, hints at an ogle. He might as well be inspecting two lawn chairs. Maggie is surprised, and she is not. She has seen this before with physicians. It’s not an act on Steve’s part. You don the lab coat, you remember your oath, you get the importance and responsibility of what you are doing. You are everything to a patient — and they have to be everything to you.