World of Trouble (9786167611136) Read Free Page A

onto a
wide boulevard. Just on the other side of the boulevard were the
aqua waters of Dubai Creek. Dubai Creek isn’t really a creek at
all, but rather a narrow inlet from the Persian Gulf that for
centuries has been a port of call for small traders and a refuge
for smugglers. The Creek was cluttered as it always was with its
usual traffic of broad-beamed dhows while, between them,
tiny abras darted like water bugs ferrying small groups of
people from one side to the other.
    Shepherd didn’t hesitate. Dragging Charlie
behind him, he broke into a lope across the road and headed
straight for the Creek.
    There was a line of abras tied up at
the bank right in front of them and Shepherd made straight for the
nearest one. He jumped down into the boat, steadied himself for a
moment as the little craft rocked from his weight, and helped
Charlie to climb down behind him. The boatman was a dark-skinned
fellow in blue shorts and a dirty white shirt. He was sitting in
the stern of the boat methodically peeling and eating an orange. He
regarded the new arrivals with curiosity.
    “Go!” Shepherd shouted at the boatman. He
pushed Charlie down onto the hard wooden bench in the center of the
little boat. “Go, for Christ’s sake!”
    The boatman didn’t move. He just sat there
and stared at the crazy white guy screaming at him.
    Everyone in Dubai might not speak English,
but Shepherd spoke another language he was sure would be
understood. He pulled a wad of currency out of his pocket and waved
it at the boatman. The man responded immediately. Dropping his
orange, he shoved the boat off the wharf with one hand and fired
the engine with the other. They sputtered into the Creek and the
boatman turned downriver toward the wharf on the opposite bank
where abras usually put in.
    Shepherd shook his head and pointed upriver.
He could see the Sheraton Hotel in the distance and right now an
American hotel looked pretty damn good to him. The boatman just
stared at him, so Shepherd did the thing with the money again and
pointed to the Sheraton. The man quickly swung the bow toward
it.
    Shepherd sat down on the wooden bench next to
Charlie. “Are you okay?” he called over the throbbing of the boat’s
engine. “Were you hit?”
    When Charlie didn’t answer, Shepherd ran his
hands over Charlie’s chest and neck looking for gunshot wounds. He
was sure Charlie hadn’t taken a direct hit, but maybe a ricochet
had caught him. The cut on his forehead wasn’t serious, Shepherd
could see that now, just bleeding like a son of a bitch the way
head cuts do.
    “Are you okay?” he shouted again.
    Charlie grunted, shook off Shepherd’s hands,
and straightened up a little. He wiped a hand over his forehead and
it came away covered with blood. Charlie held up his hand and
looked at it for a moment.
    “Stop screaming,” he said. “I’m bleeding. I
haven’t gone fucking deaf.”
    “I thought maybe you’d been—”
    “I’m fine except for this shit,” he said and
wiggled his bloody hand.
    Charlie fished in his pocket with his other
hand and came out with a white handkerchief. He used it to wipe
some of the blood away and then he folded the handkerchief
lengthwise and pressed it against the cut on his forehead to stop
the bleeding. As the boat wallowed up Dubai Creek toward the
Sheraton, Charlie shifted himself into a more comfortable position
on the hard wooden seat.
    “Fuck,” he muttered, “I would have been
better off letting those guys shoot me than getting rescued by
you.”
    Shepherd didn’t know what to say to that, so
he said nothing at all.

 
     
     
FOUR
     
    ALONE IN HIS hotel room later that afternoon,
Shepherd watched CNN as they ran the story over and over. It was
spectacular, of course, all the more so because the really dramatic
parts were in slow motion. Shepherd saw everything he had seen only
a few hours before all over again, but now he saw it from the point
of view of the cameraman who had been at the other end of