“I feel like I’ve died and gone to supercar heaven,” Joe said. “Or at least purgatory,” Kurt replied.
The cars in front of them were exotics. Hundreds of them. Lamborghinis, Maseratis, Bentleys. Ferraris were as plentiful as minivans at a kids’ soccer field. They were stored like one might expect to find lemons and junkers on an auction lot, parked so close the doors were touching. How long they’d been out there was anyone’s guess, but most were covered in so much sand and dust that the colors were hard to make out. The tires were flat on many of them, and all of them were baking in the sun.
“Somewhere a man named Enzo is crying,” Joe said. “Not to mention five brothers from Modena.”
“There are three other lots like this,” the salesman who’d taken them to see the display advised.
“Why?” Joe asked.
“Foreigners in debt leave them when they run off. There is no bankruptcy in Dubai. Prison and punishment are dealt out to those who cannot satisfy their debts.”
Kurt raised an eyebrow. “We’ll be sure to pay in advance.”
“That’s wise,” the man said. “What is it you need?”
“One of the rarest of the rare,” Kurt said. “The new sedan from Tesla.”
An hour later, their bank accounts fifty grand lighter, Kurt and Joe were takin
g the dusty Tesla apart in a garage provided by Mohammed El Din, who arrived that afternoon with a truckload of supplies from the nautical scrapyard. There were sections of fiberglass, a pair of wrecked Jet Skis, and the props from several high-powered outboard motors. Two of them looked hopelessly nicked-up, but the third was fairly clean.
“These will do,” Kurt said.
“For what?” El Din asked.
“You’ll see,” he said. “You’ll see.”
Two days later, as dusk approached, Kurt and Joe sat on the gunwale of a small fishing boat as it rose and fell on the gentle waves of the Persian Gulf. The long-nosed boat had a small cabin at the back, twin outboards, and heaps of netting and storage containers—normally filled with ice to keep the day’s catch fresh. Two rods sprouted from holders at the stern, their lines strung out into the sea.
“You sure you want to do this?” Joe asked. “You sure you want to help a guy who might have lost a few screws recently?”
“Recently?” Joe laughed. “This may come as a shock to you, amigo, but I never thought you were playing with a full deck to begin with.”
Kurt couldn’t help but laugh. “You know you’re the only one who hasn’t asked me why I’m doing this.”
“That’s because it doesn’t matter to me,” Joe said firmly. “You need help. I’m here for you.”
Kurt nodded and looked beyond the fishing poles to the glittering buildings of Dubai, lit up in shimmering gold and bronze tones as the sun began to set behind them. Ignoring the glitter, he lowered his gaze and trained a powerful spotting scope on the burly profile of Acosta’s Massif.
“She’s thick all around,” Kurt said.
Mohammed El Din stepped from the small pilothouse. “Like Acosta himself, no?”
Kurt smiled and continued to study the vessel. “How fast do you think she is?”
“No idea,” El Din said. “I don’t design ships for a living.”
“I’d guess about twenty, twenty-five knots maximum,” Joe offered. “A lot faster than we’ll be in this thing.”
“She’s making smoke,” El Din said. “They must be getting ready to leave.”
Kurt agreed. “Time to put this plan into action.”
El Din moved to the driver’s seat and turned the key. The twin outboards sputtered to life amid a cloud of bluish smoke.
Joe went to the stern and began to reel in the fishing lines as El Din nudged the throttles off idle and eased the boat forward. He brought it around in a wide semicircle that would take them toward the channel.
Kurt pulled off his dishdasha to reveal a wet suit. He dropped to the floor and slid a tarp from what looked like a small torpedo with handles.