The Miraculous Plot of Leiter & Lott (7 page)
"I think he's been following us."
"Why?"
"Because you arrive just before drone aircraft crash into two of their most cherished towers, killing seven people.
So far.
That's why."
When lunch came, David took a bite out of his sandwich, then picked up his rocks glass and clinked it against Doug's own as a toast. "To new beginnings," he said, "whatever that ends up meaning."
"It means a lot around here," Etherton said. "And did I mention that's why we called our latest survey scope on the mountain âNew Horizons'?"
"No, you didn't. You're kidding."
"Okay, I'm kidding. But that's the story I stick to, talking to potential benefactors. And you better believe you need to impress them if you expect them to open their wallets."
"Hard to impress billionaires, is it?"
Doug ticked off an imaginary ledger with one licked finger. "Unless you're using astronomical figures, which I definitely do." He slurped at his whiskey sour. "It's what they understand. Bigger is better, and all that. Vast wealth, infinite possibility. . . sure. But get them to see they'll be able to brag about something more impressive than having the longest yacht in the harbor, and you've got your first step inside the teak door."
"Sad that it comes to this," David said. "Looking for handouts from egomaniacs."
Etherton looked out one of the window panels toward Cirque Du Soleil's permanent theatre further out on the Palm trunk. Then he laughed. "Yeah, it's a dirty job, but somebody's got to do it. Right?"
"Long as you don't get dirty in the process, I suppose."
Doug sighed. “Ah, well, they're not really dirty. They're misguided. Their guide has promised a lot, and also delivered a lot, but no one really knows what happens next except maybe Sheik Mohammed himself. He's got dreams that are bigger than anyone has ever had. Dreams that make Trump's look like Mickey Mouse's. But he's got problems, too. His open door policy has brought in a lot of riff raff. Emiratis complain, but they also benefit. Upshot is, they're a spoiled minority, and hard to motivate. Once you get free land, free health care, free education, and a yearly allowance with no taxes, why should you work? Why should you care if Dubai has the biggest carbon footprint of any city on Earth? If you're bored, you just climb into your 911
Targa
, trust Allah instead of fastening your seat belt, then hit the gas pedal and grin. Get in an accident with an ex-pat or immigrant, after all, and it's
their
fault, even if you ran the red light. And when you make it home to your skybox condo, you turn up the air conditioning against the hundred ten degree heat outside, and settle back to watch American Idol.”
“You're talking about the average citizen, now?”
“Uh huh. The five percent who aren't from somewhere else, or have fewer rights. Speaking of the top tier who own yachts, though, want to help me impress someone? I'm invited to a private meeting next week at a residence in the World Islands. Guy's a shipping magnate whose brother runs
Etisalat
here for the government."
"What's
Etisalat
?" David asked.
"It's the only internet server in Dubai. You know that building with what looks like a giant golf ball on top? That's communications central. Only it's not a golf ball.
Etisalat
is the telephone company, but it also restricts access to porn sites, certain religious networks, and most of what originates in Israel."
"And yet he's open to astronomical research into stellar evolution?"
"
Aazad
is, but not his brother
Qadir
. They argue a lot. We would be upholding
Aazad's
end, and hopefully opening his wallet in the process. Assuming, of course, that you're still here next week."
"Let me think about that."
David looked up. Through the Plexiglas ceiling he could see the soaring arch connecting the two stainless steel towers above into a single, sweeping monument to hubris. Resurrecting some of the building's stats from memory, he tried to imagine what it was would be like to live up there, on the residence side, in one of the still unfinished Pinnacle penthouses on levels fifty-six or fifty-seven. Amid seventy-five hundred square feet of living space, decorated with modern art, he knew there would eventually be
Gaggenau
appliances and high gloss white lacquered zodiac stone counters embellishing the gourmet kitchen. Even if he only owned one of the Titanium or Platinum suites, his rights as resident in this W.S. Atkins-designed structure, rising high above Palm
Jumeirah's
Golden Mile, would qualify him for one of fifty-six berths at the Mega Yacht Club, where he could even lease a yacht if he didn't yet own one. His membership in the MYC would include Pilates classes, boxing, yoga, private dining, and access to luxury shopping and the IMAX cinema whose construction would continue soon, too. For live entertainment, featuring the most popular stars in the world, all he'd need to do is take a monorail over to Atlantis, at the Crescent of the Palm.
"Do you think they'll let us walk around the property, at least, before we go?" David asked. "Like over to the yacht club?"
"Maybe," Doug replied, "
Nasheed
is a member, after all. So is
Qadir
Baloum
."
"What about Jeffrey Innes, who bought a Platinum suite here when it was first announced? What if I drop his name, too? Will it stick or bounce?"
Etherton set down his drink, staring with renewed concern.
David smiled as he rose. "Just kidding," he whispered. Then he went to the bar, halfway between the police tail and the fake glamour couple. When the bartender came over, he asked to be freshened with vodka and lime. He lifted the glass in the direction of Mr. Interesting, hoping to generate a little interest. "I know you," he said, bravely, and made a circle with his forefinger to indicate the bartender should refresh whatever they were having, too. "We met in Marrakesh, right?"
The model smiled. The Man didn't. Maybe he never smiled, David thought. Maybe it wasn't in his job description. Maybe that was
her
job.
When the bartender did not dispense them alcohol on the job, David drank alone and imagined the Man telling her his story for the first time: like how he'd traveled to over a hundred countries, mastering a dozen languages. How he'd married and divorced, then lost a son in a mountain climbing accident on the south island of New Zealand. Born on the wrong side of the tracks in Kansas City, the Man probably left home early to ride the rails, David decided, then earned his grits as a riverboat roustabout on the Mississippi. Next came the Coast Guard, the Merchant Marine, and a risky string of jobs as deep sea diver for oceanographic expeditions, salvage operations, treasure hunts. . . Next, earning his stake as a volunteer searching for the only shipwreck left boasting a belly of gold---a Spanish galleon that had failed to skirt a crosshatch pattern of shallow reefs during a Caribbean hurricane in 1537---he'd invested his meager percentage as venture capital in a diamond mine project in the Kimberley, and immediately struck into a cache of large, raw blue stones. Selling his shares upon their brief yet sharp spike in value, he then bought into bauxite, and with stable, lifelong earnings virtually guaranteed from Alcoa, embarked on adventure after adventure across the globe, excavating dinosaur fossils in China, tracking down fugitive gun runners in Sicily, and installing fiber optic cable into newly erected schools in rural India and Brazil. He did not merely give money to charity, either, and then slump back onto some couch. The Man did not even own a couch, though he did own a condo here in Dubai with a sleek ergonomic chair, and with a dresser and platform bed facing a slowing rotating outer glass wall, as his entire floor tracked and adjusted to the glare of the Middle Eastern sun. There was also his hunter green Porsche 911, which shared the room with him, as did the occasional guest. But the Man was rarely there, he said, and instead preferred the private jets of those billionaires whose ideas--rather than their parents--have made them rich. They in turn enjoyed his candor, his intuitive insight, his integrity and bottomless fascination with innovation, mystery, and--
"You
ready?"
Doug asked, hand suddenly on his shoulder.
David nodded, got up, and solemnly tipped the bartender. Then he turned once more to the Man and the Woman. But it was to the Man that he asked, "What's your name?"
The grizzled face turned up toward him, slowly. "It doesn't matter," the Man said.
"So what matters, then?"
"Imagination."
David smiled, impressed. "How did you grasp that?
"By paying attention. By being here."
"Instead of being bored?"
A vouchsafed chuckle. "The bored have no imagination, my friend. If you're alive, you're alive everywhere, at all times. You don't have a short attention span."
"Oh my God," David confided to Doug, mimicking him as they walked away. "Did you just hear what he just said?"
"No," Doug replied, "what did he say?"
"He said we're nothing to Nature, except as worker drones to push genetic code into the future. So if you want to be, like, a star ball player, you should take another road. Become part of a strange and wonderful evolution, or revolution. Think bigger, and smaller, and deeper. Do what hasn't been done. Go where no one has gone. He said you're only limited by your perspective."
"Is that what he said?" Doug asked, as they exited the Epic, "because what I got from it was just
stay thirsty, my friend."
The Mega Yacht Club already resembled what David imagined to be a billionaire's wet dream of paradise. Every attempt at maintaining the illusion was being taken, including the disguise of trash receptacles as ornamental four foot urns. Although there were no obvious virgins present, a requisite number of immaculately dressed service personnel appeared to have been chosen as much for their attractiveness as their attentiveness. Beneath slatted white panels that adjusted against the otherwise glaring sun, over fifty club members and guests enjoyed luncheon cocktails and informal conversation from a balcony half as long as a football field. The balcony also overlooked the most impressive array of sleek yachts David had ever seen, and he wondered which of them might be owned by bailed-out banking executives from the States.
He followed Etherton more closely, this time, as Doug perused faces among the comfortable blue lounge chairs and glass tables arranged in intimate groupings. Philodendron hugged decorative latticework rising from occasional rectangular golden planters set as unobtrusive dividers. Cool air seemed to drift miraculously through the open space, until David realized that those long white panels above were also dispensing super chilled currents through narrow vents.
He had turned his attention for only a moment to one of the largest yachts berthed beyond the lawn fronting the clubhouse---a massive craft scowling with darkened windows, and frenetic with whirling radar---when he bumped into Doug's back.
"Sorry."
Etherton seemed frozen in place, staring ahead toward the end of the clubhouse balcony.
"What is it?" David asked. "Look like you seen a ghost."
Doug shook his head, which seemed to revive him and refocus his vision. "No, it's
Aazad
."
"Who?"
"The man I mentioned. The meeting next week."
"Oh. He's here?"
"Right over there."
Doug didn't point, so David followed his gaze over to the last grouping of furniture, where a bulky man in a flowing white robe sat with an espresso cup and saucer in hand, talking to a man similarly dressed.
"Is that his brother?"
"I think so," Doug confirmed.
"Good eyes," David noted. "What now?"
"Follow me, and we'll get your invitation."
They walked across the marble floor. David again glanced to the left at the mega-yacht, idling at the end of the dock's long red carpet. "Is that sybaritic one his, then?"
Doug didn't answer. Maybe he didn't know what
sybaritic
meant. When they arrived within what would be considered a breach of personal space, Etherton bowed slightly, then smiled.
Aazad
al
Fazik
Baloum
acknowledged the smile with his own, then both men stood for traditional handshakes and introductions. The brothers were middle-aged, stout men with wide nostrils complimented by full lips and beards. Only
Aazad
possessed slightly bulbous, watery eyes, while
Qadir's
seemed narrow and weak-lidded by comparison.
Aazad
angled dramatically quizzical eyebrows toward David, asking, "Your friend new to town?"
Doug nodded for him. "How did you know?"
"Not much of a tan. And how are you, Etherton? Still up for our meeting next Thursday, I hope?"
"Absolutely. Was wondering if David here could join us. He's an old colleague, a systems designer here on vacation."
"Well," said the shipping mogul, evincing delight, "certainly he may."
Aazad
turned to David, taking one of his hands in both of his own for a brief, hearty squeeze. "Sorry you picked such a time for your visit, though. Seems we have a bit of a challenge facing the tourist office."