“Glad to hear it. Track her down and talk to her. Tell her about Muhammad. Get her take on what’s going on.”
“Hang on. I’ll call you back.”
It occurred to Mark that he hadn’t eaten anything since his two early-morning Cinnabons and that he should be hungry. He wasn’t, but he was feeling a little lightheaded and weak, so he went down to the main dining room and ordered the all-you-can-eat buffet. He ate a lot — pasta Alfredo and Chinese dumplings and chicken parmigiana and bread rolls with too much butter — forcing himself to fuel up quickly for what he anticipated would be a long night. He drank three cups of lukewarm coffee as he ate, and then one more after he’d already paid for his meal and was just camping out at the table, feeling jumpy and impatient.
He didn’t like the fact that he had to rely so much on Bowlan.
Come on, Larry. Enough already.
He thought about Rad, and then forced himself not to. He thought about Daria, and hoped she was safe. He wanted to call or e-mail her, but didn’t want to have to explain his plans. She wouldn’t approve — of that he was certain — though she’d approve of the result if he managed to pull it off.
Finally, fifty-two minutes after they’d last spoken, Bowlan called back.
“OK, you ready?”
Mark was relieved to hear the old man’s voice again. “Shoot.”
“Kalila Safi did pass through customs three days ago. And if she’s the Kalila Safi I think she is, she’s the sister of a wealthy developer here in Dubai. I left a few messages at residential and business numbers I was able to dredge up for the developer, but no one’s called back.”
“Great. Keep pushing until you talk to Kalila herself.”
“Yeah, I got it the first time. As for the Saudi princes, I got two live ones. First is Bandar bin Fahd. He works for a private equity firm in Manama and is the son of a provincial Saudi governor. It’s a pretty good bet that what he really does is just invest all the money his dad makes by bilking the government. He left Dubai for Bahrain yesterday. Then we’ve got Abdulaziz bin Salman, son of the deputy minister of agriculture, lists his job as civil engineer. He left Dubai for Bahrain two days ago.”
“Spell the names.”
Bowlan did.
Mark googled them with his iPod, then said, “Nothing on Abdulaziz. With Bandar, I’m looking at a bunch of hits related to his private equity work… and, hold on… and a press report that says he was caught with three prostitutes at the Four Seasons in London, bit of a minor scandal.” Mark took thirty seconds to skim the rest of the article. “He’s also a grandson of the king, but he isn’t anywhere close to being in line for the throne. Does he travel a lot to Bahrain?”
Mark heard Bowlan pecking slowly at a keyboard. “Pretty regularly, looks like once or twice a month.”
“You wouldn’t happen to know where he stays while he’s there?”
“Ah…” After a minute, Bowlan said, “No. Those records would be with customs in Bahrain. But he lists the Hilton here in Dubai under his contact info. I’m looking at two years of data here, multiple entries each month, and he always stays at the Hilton. I’d bet he does the same thing at one of the higher-end hotels in Manama. Probably keeps a suite there like an apartment. The Saudis with money to burn do that. They like the room service.”
“Is there a Hilton in Bahrain?”
“I don’t know.”
Mark googled it. There wasn’t. Nor were there any Hilton affiliates. “Is he married?”
“Yes.”
“Does he travel with his wife? Or a bodyguard?”
“I doubt he’d travel with his wife. One, it would cramp his style. Two, Saudi women don’t travel much. However, he does list one travel companion on all his applications. Could be his driver, bodyguard, lover, all of the above, whatever.”
“OK — e-mail me Bandar’s photo.” Mark gave Bowlan an e-mail address.
“You got it. That’s it?”
“Get in touch with Kalila Safi.”
“Yeah, I know. I meant besides that.”
“What’s your cell number?”
Bowlan read it off.
“I’ll be calling you soon,” said Mark. “Be ready to move.”
48
Mark agreed with Bowlan’s assessment that Prince Bandar bin Fahd of Saudi Arabia probably stayed at one of the upscale hotels in or around Manama, but that didn’t help much. Bahrain was a wealthy nation. There were lots of upscale hotels. And it was a near certainty that every one of them would have a strict confidentiality policy that would prevent them from revealing whether Bandar was a guest. So he figured he’d work the prostitution angle instead.
He caught a cab, got dropped off in the busy Awadhiya section of Manama, spent fifteen minutes ducking in the front doors and out the back doors of various shops until he was certain he’d gotten rid of anyone who might have been tailing him, then caught another cab — this time to the Juffair district of Manama, not far from the US naval base.
Mark didn’t know anything about prostitution in Bahrain. But he was betting the area around the navy base wouldn’t be a bad place to start learning about it.
Al Shabab Avenue was the main drag of Juffair, a long Americanized strip of road lined with a Chili’s, Baskin-Robbins, Dairy Queen, McDonald’s, and dozens of other Western chains. Given its proximity to the naval base, Mark was also counting on finding what he saw next — a sign advertising a GENT’S SALOON. Next to the saloon was a Chinese massage parlor.
He put his eyes up to the tinted window of the saloon and saw that it wasn’t a saloon at all — it was actually a barbershop whose owner had added an extra letter o to the word salon.
But the Chinese massage parlor looked like the real deal. The doorframe around the front entrance was grimy, the red-and-white neon sign above the door, garish. When Mark stepped inside, he noted the red carpet was in need of a good steam cleaning.
A slender Asian woman who looked to be about sixty greeted him. She sat in a dim front parlor, at a desk trimmed with what looked like Christmas icicle lights. Behind her hung a poster depicting a buxom, dark-haired woman riding a Chinese dragon. The place smelled like licorice-infused incense and cigarettes.
Mark told her that he’d come for a massage, asked what her prices were, and listened as she told him.
The businesslike way she spoke, the assurance with which she carried herself, the way she looked at Mark as she might an article of clothing she was considering purchasing — all these signals made Mark reluctant to try to tap her for information. He assumed that she’d sell him information for the right price, but he feared she’d tell him anything she thought he wanted to hear, true or not.
“The regular fifteen-dinar massage will be fine,” he said.
The woman frowned. “The special massage is much better.”
“With someone who speaks English?”
“Yes, yes, of course.”
“OK, I’ll take the half-hour special massage.”
“One hour is the best price.”
“I only have a half hour.”
The woman frowned again.
“Take it or leave it,” said Mark.
He paid in advance and tipped the woman five dinars. She led him down a narrow hall. Red lightbulbs set in cheap brass wall sconces had been fitted with tiny white lampshades. The eerie light cast distorted shadows onto the walls.
The woman opened a door at the end of the hall. Inside was more red light.
He walked into the room and closed the door behind him. It was a small space, no more than eight by ten feet. Just enough room for a massage table and a small end table, on which sat an incense burner, some sticks of incense, and a big bottle of citrus-scented oil.