Chapter 10

One of Khayyam's rubaiyyat kept going through my mind. Something about regret: 

Again, again, Repentance oft before I vowed—but was I sober when I swore? Again, again I failed, for younger thoughts my frail Repentance into tatters tore.

"Chiri, please," I said, holding up my empty glass. The club was almost empty. It was late and I was very tired. I closed my eyes and listened to the music, the same shrill, thumping hispo music Kandy played every time she got up to dance. I was getting tired of hearing the same songs over and over again.

"Why don't you go home?" Chiri asked me. "I can take care of the place by myself. What's the matter, don't you trust me with the cash?"

I opened my eyes. She'd put a fresh vodka gimlet in front of me. I was in a bottomless melancholy, the kind that doesn't get any help at all from liquor. You can drink all night and you never get loaded. You end up with a bad stomach and a pounding headache, but the relief you expect from your troubles never comes. " 'S all right," I said. "I got to stay. You go ahead and close up, though. Nobody's come in for an hour at least."

"What you say, boss," said Chiri, giving me a worried look. I hadn't told her about Shaknahyi. I hadn't told anybody about him.

"Chiri, you know somebody I can trust to do a little dirty work?"

She didn't look shocked. That was one of the reasons I liked her so much. "You can't find somebody with your cop connections? You don't have enough thugs working for you at Papa's?"

I shook my head. "Somebody who knows what he's doing, somebody I can count on to keep a low profile."

Chiri grinned. "Somebody like what you used to be before your lucky number came up. What about Morgan? He's dependable and he probably won't sell you out."

"I don't know," I said. Morgan was a big blond guy, an American from Federated New England. He and I didn't travel in the same circles, but if Chiri recommended him, he was probably all right.

"What you need done?" she asked.

I rubbed my cheek. Reflected in the back mirror, my red beard was beginning to show a lot of gray. "I want him to track somebody down for me. Another American."

"See there? Morgan's a natural."

"Uh huh," I said sourly. "If they blow each other away, nobody'11 miss 'em. Can you get hold of him tonight?"

She looked doubtful. "It's two o'clock in the morning."

"Tell him there's a hundred kiam in it for him. Just for showing up and talking to me."

"He'll be here," said Chiri. She dug an address book out of her bag and grabbed the bar's phone.

I gulped down half the vodka gimlet and stared at the front door. Now I was waiting for two people.

"You want to pay us?" Chiri said some time later.

I'd been staring at the door, unaware that the music had been turned off and the five dancers had gotten dressed. I shook my head to clear the fog out of it, but it didn't do much good. "How'd we do tonight?" I asked.

"Same as always," said Chiri. "Lousy."

I split the receipts with her and began counting out the dancers' money. Chiri had a list of how many drinks each girl had gotten from the customers. I figured out the commissions and added them to the wages. "Nobody better come in late tomorrow," I said.

"Yeah, right," said Kandy, snatching up her money and hurrying for the door. Lily, Rani, and Jamila were close behind her.

"You all right, Marîd?" asked Yasmin.

I looked up at her, grateful for her concern. "I'm fine," I said. "Tell you all about it later."

"Want to go out for some breakfast?"

That would have been wonderful. I hadn't gone out with Yasmin in months. I realized that it had been a very long time since I'd gone out with anybody. I had something else to do tonight, though. "Let me postpone that," I said. "Tomorrow, maybe."

"Sure, Marîd," she said. She turned and went out.

"There is something wrong, huh?" said Chiri.

I just nodded and folded up the rest of the night's cash. No matter how fast I gave it away, it just kept accumulating.

"And you don't want to talk about it."

I shook my head. "Go on home, Chiri."

"Just gonna sit here in the dark by yourself?"

I made a shooing motion with my hand. Chiri shrugged and left me alone. I finished the vodka gimlet, then went behind the bar and made myself another one. About twenty minutes later, the blond American came into the club. He nodded to me and said something in English.

I just shook my head. I opened my briefcase on the bar, took out an English-language daddy, and chipped it in. There was just a moment while my mind worked to translate what he'd said, and then the daddy kicked in and it was as if I'd always known how to speak English. "Sorry to make you come out so late, Morgan," I said.

He ran a large hand through his long blond hair. "Hey, man, what's happenin'?"

"Want a drink?"

"You can draw me a beer if it's free."

"Help yourself," I said.

He leaned across the bar and held a clean glass under one of the taps. "Chiri said something about a hundred kiam, man."

I took out my money. The size of the roll dismayed me. I was going to have to get to the bank more often, or else I'd have to let Kmuzu play bodyguard full-time. I dealt out five twenty-kiam bills and slid them down toward Morgan.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and scooped up the money. He looked down at the bills, then back at me. "Now I can go, right?" he said.

"Sure," I said, "unless you want to hear how you can make a thousand more."

He adjusted his steel-rimmed spectacles and grinned again. I didn't know if the glasses were functional or just an affectation. If his eyes were bad, he could have had them reconstructed cheaply enough. "This is a lot more interesting than what I was doin', anyway," he said.

"Fine. I just want you to find somebody." I told him all about Paul Jawarski.

When I mentioned the Flathead Gang, Morgan nodded. "He's the guy that killed the cop today?" he asked.

"He got away."

"Well, hey, man, the law will bring him in sooner or later, you can bet on that."

I didn't let my expression change. "I don't want to hear about sooner or later, okay? I want to know where he's at, and I want to ask him a couple of questions before the cops get to him. He's holed up somewhere, probably been stung with a needle gun."

"You're payin' a thousand kiam just to put the finger on this guy?"

I squeezed the wedge of lime into my gimlet and drank some. "Uh huh."

"You don't want me to rough him up a little for you?"

"Just find him before Hajjar does."

"Aha," said Morgan, "I get you, man. After the lieutenant gets his hooks into him, Jawarski won't be available to talk to nobody."

"Right. And we don't want that to happen."

"I guess we don't, man. How much you gonna pay me up front?"

"Five now, five later." I cut him another five hundred kiam. "I get results tomorrow, right?"

His big hand closed on the money and he gave me his predatory grin. "Go get some sleep, man. I'll be wakin' you up with Jawarski's address and commcode."

I stood up. "Finish your beer and let's get out of here. This place is starting to break my heart."

Morgan looked around at the dark bar. "Ain't the same without the girls and the mirror balls goin', is it?" He gulped down the rest of his beer and set the glass gently on the bar.

I followed him toward the front door. "Find Jawarski," I said.

"You got it, man." He raised a hand and ambled away up the Street. I went back inside and sat in my place. My night wasn't over yet.

I drank a couple more gimlets before Indihar showed up. I knew she was going to come. I'd been waiting for her.

She'd thrown on a bulky blue coat and tied a maroon and gold scarf over her hair. Her face was pale and drawn, her lips pressed tightly together. She came to where I was sitting and looked down at me. Her eyes weren't red, though; she hadn't been crying. I couldn't imagine Indihar crying. "I want to talk to you," she said. Her voice was cold and calm.

"That's why I been sitting here," I said.

She turned away and stared at herself in the wall of mirrors behind the stage. "Sergeant Catavina said you weren't in very good shape this morning. That true?" She looked at me again. Her expression was perfectly empty.

"Is what true?" I said. "That I wasn't feeling well?

"That you were high or hung over today when you went out with my husband."

I sighed. "I showed up at the station house with a hangover. It wasn't crippling, though."

Her hands began clenching and unclenching. I could see her jaw muscles twitch. "You think it might have slowed you down any?"

"No, Indihar," I said, "I don't think it affected me at all. You want to blame me for what happened? Is that what this is about?"

Her head turned very slowly. She stared directly into my eyes. "Yes, I want to blame you. You didn't back him up fast enough. You didn't cover him. If you'd been there for him, he wouldn't be dead."

"You can't say that, Indihar." I had a sick, hollow feeling in my belly because I'd been thinking the same thing all day. The guilt had been growing in me since I'd left Shaknahyi lying on a cot at the hospital with a bloody sheet over his face.

"My husband would be alive and my children would  still have a father. They don't now, you know. I haven't told them yet. I don't know how to tell them. I don't know how to tell myself, if you want to know the truth. Maybe tomorrow I'll realize that Jirji's dead. Then I'll have to find a way to get through the day without him, through the week, through the rest of my life."

I felt a sudden nausea and closed my eyes. It was as if I weren't really there, as if I were just dreaming this nightmare. When I opened my eyes, though, Indihar was still looking at me. It had all happened, and she and I were going to have to play out this terrible scene. "I—"

"Don't tell me you're sorry, you son of a bitch," she said. Even then she didn't raise her voice. "I don't want to hear anybody tell me he's sorry."

I just sat there and let her say whatever she needed to say. She couldn't accuse me of anything that I hadn't already confessed to in my own mind. Maybe if I hadn't gotten so drunk last night, maybe if I hadn't taken all those sunnies this morning—

Finally she just stared at me, a look of despair on her face. She was condemning me with her presence and her silence. She knew and I knew, and that was enough. Then she turned and walked out of the club, her gait steady, her posture perfect.

I felt absolutely destroyed. I found the phone where Chiri'd left it and spoke my home commcode into it. It rang three times and then Kmuzu answered. "You want to come get me?" I said. I was slurring my words.

"Are you at Chiriga's?" he asked.

"Yeah. Come quick before I kill myself." I slapped the phone down on the bar and made myself another drink while I waited.

When he arrived, I had a little present for him. "Hold out your hand," I said.

"What is it, yaa Sidi?"

I emptied my pillcase into his upturned palm, then clicked the pillcase closed and put it back in my pocket. "Get rid of 'em," I said.

His expression didn't change as he closed his fist. "This is wise," he said.

"I'm way overdue." I got up from my stool and followed him back into the cool night air. I locked the front door of Chiri's and then let Kmuzu drive me home.

I took a long shower and let the hot needle spray blast my skin until I felt myself begin to relax. I dried off and went into my bedroom. Kmuzu had brought me a mug of strong hot chocolate. I sipped it gratefully.

"Will you be needing anything else tonight, yaa Sidi?" he asked.

"Listen," I said, "I'm not going into the station house in the morning. Let me sleep, all right? I don't want to be bothered. I don't want to answer any phone calls or deal with anybody's problems."

"Unless the master of the house requires you," said Kmuzu.

I sighed. "That goes without saying. Otherwise—"

"I will see that you're not disturbed."

I didn't chip in the wake-up daddy before I went to bed, and I got a restless night's sleep. Bad dreams woke me again and again until I fell into deep, exhausted sleep at dawn. It was close to noon when I finally got out of bed. I dressed in my old jeans and work shirt, a costume I didn't wear very often around Friedlander Bey's mansion.

"Would you like some breakfast, yaa Sidi?" asked Kmuzu.

"No, I'm taking a vacation from all that today."

He frowned. "There is a business matter for your attention later."

"Later," I agreed. I went to the desk where I'd thrown my briefcase the night before, and took Wise Counselor from the rack of moddies. I thought my troubled mind could use some instant therapy. I seated myself in a comfortable black leather chair and chipped the moddy in.

Once upon a time in Mauretania there was or maybe there wasn 't a famous fool, trickster, and rascal named Martd Audran. One day Audran was driving his cream-colored Westphalian sedan on his way to take care of some important business, when another car collided with his. The second car was old and broken down, and although the accident was clearly the fault of the other driver, the man jumped out of the wrecked heap and began screaming at Audran. "Look what you 've done to my magnificent vehicle!" shouted the driver, who was Police Lieutenant Hajjar. Reda Abu Adil, Hassan the Shiite, and Pauljawar-

ski also got out of the car. All four threatened and abused Audran, although he protested that he had done nothing wrong.

Jawarski kicked the creased fender of Hajjar's automobile. "It's useless now," he said, "and so the only fair thing is for you to give us your car."

Audran was outnumbered four to one and it was clear that they were not in a mood to be reasonable, so he agreed.

"And will you not reward us for showing you the path of honor?" asked Hajjar.

"If we hadn 't insisted," said Hassan, "your actions would have put your soul in jeopardy with Allah."

"Perhaps," said Audran. "What do you wish me to pay you for this service?"

Reda Abu Adil spread his hands as if it mattered little. "It is but a token, a symbol between Muslim brothers, " he said. "You may give us each a hundred kiam." So Audran handed the keys to his cream-colored Westphalian sedan to Lieutenant Hajjar, and paid each of the four a hundred kiam.

All afternoon, Audran pushed Hajjar's wrecked car back to town in the hot sun. He parked it in the middle of the souk and went to find his friend, Saied the Half-Hajj. "You must help me get even with Hajjar, Abu Adil, Hassan, and Jawarski," he said, and Saied was agreeable. Audran cut a hole in the floor of the derelict automobile, and Saied lay by the opening covered with a blanket so that none could see him, with a small bag of gold coins. Then Audran started the engine of the car and waited.

Not long after, the four villains happened by. They saw Audran sitting in the shade of the ruined automobile and laughed. "It won't drive an inch!" mocked Jawarski. "What are you warming the engine for?"

Audran glanced up. "I have my reasons, "he said, and he smiled as if he had a wonderful secret.

"What reasons?" demanded Abu Adil. "Has the summer sun at last broiled your brains?"

Audran stood and stretched. "I guess I can tell you," he said lightly. "After all, I owe my good fortune to you."

"Good fortune?" asked Hajjar suspiciously.

"Come," said Audran. "Look." He led the four vil-

lains to the back of the car where the battery cap had been left open. "Piss in the battery," he said.

"You 've surely gone crazy," said Jawarski.

"Then I will do it myself," said Audran, and he did, relieving himself into the wreck's battery. "Now we must wait a moment. There! Did you hear that?"

"I heard nothing," said Hassan.

"Listen," said Audran. And there came a gentle chink! chink! sound from beneath the car. "Take a look," he commanded.

Reda Abu Adil got down on hands and knees, ignoring the dust and the indignity, and peered under the car. "May his faith be cursed!" he cried. "Gold!" He stretched out on the ground and reached under the car; when he straightened up again, he held a handful of gold coins. He showed them to his companions in amazement.

"Listen, "said Audran. And they all heard the chink! chink! of more gold coins falling to the ground.

"He pisses yellow into the car," murmured Hassan, "and yellow gold falls from it."

"May Allah let you prosper if you let me have my car back!" cried Lieutenant Hajjar.

"I'm afraid not," said Audran.

"Take your goddamn cream-colored Westphalian sedan and we'll call it a fair trade," said Jawarski.

"I'm afraid not," said Audran.

"We'll each give you a hundred kiam as well," said Abu Adil.

"I'm afraid not," said Audran.

They begged and begged, and Audran refused. Finally they offered to give him back his sedan plus five hundred kiam from each of them, and he accepted. "But come back in an hour, "he said. "That's still my piss in the battery. "And they agreed. Then Audran and Saied went off and divided their profit.

I yawned as I popped Wise Counselor out. I'd enjoyed the vision, except for seeing Hassan the Shiite, who was dead and who could stay dead for all I cared. I thought about what the little story might mean. It might mean that my unconscious mind was hard at work coming up with clever ways to outsmart my enemies. I was glad to learn this. I already knew that I wasn't going to get anywhere by force. I didn't have any. I felt subtly different after that session with Wise Counselor: more determined, maybe, but also wonderfully clear and free. I had a grim set to my jaw now and the    | sense that no one at all could impose restrictions on me.     j I'd been changed by Shaknahyi's death, kicked up to a    I higher energy level. I felt as if I were living in pure oxy-    ! gen, bright and clean and dangerously explosive.

"Yaa Sidi," said Kmuzu softly.

"What is it?"

"The master of the house is ill today and wishes you to attend to a small business matter."

I yawned again. "Yeah, you right. What kind of business?"

"I do not know."

This liberated feeling let me forget about what Fried-lander Bey might think of my clothes. That just wasn't important anymore. Papa had me under his thumb and maybe I couldn't do anything about it, but I wasn't going to be passive any longer. I intended to let him know that; but when I saw him, he looked so ill that I filed it away for later.

He lay propped up in bed with a small mountain of pillows around him and behind his back. A tray table straddled his legs, and it was stacked high with file folders, reports, multicolored memory plates, and a tiny microcomputer. He held a cup of hot aromatic tea in one hand and one of Umm Saad's stuffed dates in the other. Umm Saad must have thought she could bribe Papa with them, or that he would forget his last words to her. To be honest, Friedlander Bey's problem with Umm Saad seemed almost trivial to me now, but I did not mention her.

"I pray for your well-being," I said.

Papa raised his eyes toward me and grimaced. "It is nothing, my nephew. I feel dizzy and sick to my stomach."

I leaned forward and kissed Papa's cheek, and he muttered something I could not hear clearly.

I waited for him to explain the business matter he wanted me to take care of. "Youssef tells me there is a large, angry woman in the waiting room downstairs," he said, a frown pulling down his mouth. "Her name is Tema Akwete. She's trying to be patient because she's come a long distance to beg a favor."

"What kind of favor?" I asked.

Papa shrugged. "She represents the new government of the Songhay Republic."

"Never heard of it."

"Last month the country was called the Glorified Segu Kingdom. Before that it was the Magistracy of Timbuktu, and before that Mali, and before that it was part of French West Africa."

"And the Akwete woman is an emissary from the new regime?"

Friedlander Bey nodded. He started to say something, but his eyes closed and his head fell back against the pillows. He passed a hand across his forehead. "Forgive me, my nephew," he said, "I'm not feeling well."

"Then don't concern yourself about the woman. What is her problem?"

"Her problem is that the Segu king was very upset to find out he'd lost his job. Before he fled the palace he sacked the royal treasury, of course—that goes without saying. His gang also destroyed all the vital computer records in the capital. The Songhay Republic opened up shop without the slightest idea of how many people they rule or even where the country's boundaries are. There is no fair basis for taxation, no lists of government employees or descriptions of their duties, and no accurate information concerning the armed forces. Songhay faces immediate catastrophe."

I understood. "So they sent someone here. They want you to restore order."

"Without tax revenue, the new government cannot pay its employees or continue normal services. It's likely that Songhay will soon be paralyzed by general strikes. The army may desert, and then the country will be at the mercy of neighboring nations, if they are any better organized."

"Why is the woman angry with you, then?"

Papa spread his hands. "Songhay's problems are not my concern," he said. "I explained to you that Reda Abu Adil and I divided the Muslim world. This country is in his jurisdiction. I have nothing to do with the Sub-Saharan states."

"Akwete should have gone to Abu Adil in the first place."

"Exactly. Youssef gave that message to her, but she screamed and struck the poor man. She thinks we're trying to extort a higher payment from her and her government." Papa set down his teacup and searched through the disordered piles of papers on his blankets, selecting a thick envelope and passing it to me with a trembling hand. "This is the background material and the contract she offered me. Tell her to take it to Abu Adil."

I took a deep breath and let it out. It didn't sound like dealing with Akwete was going to be much fun. "I'll talk to her," I said.

Papa nodded absently. He'd disposed of one minor annoyance, and he was already turning his attention to something else. After a while I murmured a few words and left the room. He didn't even notice that I'd gone. Kmuzu was waiting for me in the corridor leading from Papa's private apartment. I told him what Fried-lander Bey and I had talked about. "I'm gonna see this woman," I said, "and then you and I are gonna take a ride out to Abu Adil's house."

"Yes, yaa Sidi, but it may be best if I waited for you in the car. Reda Abu Adil no doubt thinks me a traitor."

"Uh huh. Because you were hired as a bodyguard for his wife and now you look out for me?"

"Because he arranged for me to be a spy in the house of Friedlander Bey, and I no longer consider myself to be in his employ."

I had known from the beginning that Kmuzu was a spy. I'd just thought he was Papa's spy, not Abu Adil's. "You're not reporting everything back to him?"

"Back to whom, yaa Sidi?"

"Back to Abu Adil."

Kmuzu gave me a brief, earnest smile. "I assure you that I am not. I am, of course, reporting to the master of the house."

"Well, that's all right, then." We'd gone downstairs, and I stopped outside one of the waiting rooms. The two Stones That Speak stood on either side of the door. They glared menacingly at Kmuzu. Kmuzu glared back. I ignored all of them and went inside. The black woman jumped to her feet as soon as I'd set foot across the threshold. "I demand an explanation!" she cried. "I warn you, as a lawful ambassador of the government of the Songhay Republic—"

I shut her up with a sharp look. "Madame Akwete," I said, "the message you received earlier was quite accurate. You've truly come to the wrong place. However, I can expedite this matter for you. I'll convey the information and the contract in this envelope to Shaykh Reda Abu Adil, who participated in establishing the Segu Kingdom. He'll be able to help you in the same way."

"And what payment will you expect as a middleman?" Akwete asked sourly.

"None whatsoever. It is a gesture of friendship from our house to a new Islamic republic."

"Our country is still young. We mistrust such friendship."

"That is your privilege," I said, shrugging. "No doubt the Segu king felt the same way." I turned and left the waiting room.

Kmuzu and I walked briskly along the hall toward the great wooden front doors. I could hear Akwete's shoes echoing behind us on the tiled floor. "Wait," she called. I thought I heard a hint of apology in her voice.

I stopped and faced her. "Yes, madame?" I said.

"This shaykh . . . can he do as you say? Or is this some elaborate swindle?"

I gave her a cold smile. "I don't see that you or your country are in any position to doubt. Your situation is hopeless now, and Abu Adil can't make it any worse. You have nothing to lose and everything to gain."

"We are not rich," said Akwete. "Not after the way King Olujimi bled our people and squandered our meager wealth. We have little gold—"

Kmuzu raised a hand. It was very unusual for him to interrupt. "Shaykh Reda is less interested in your gold than in power," he said.

"Power?" asked Akwete. "What kind of power does he want?"

"He will study your situation," said Kmuzu, "and then he will reserve certain information for himself."

I thought I saw the black woman falter. "I insist on going with you to see this man. It is my right."

Kmuzu and I looked at each other. We both knew how naive she was to think she had any rights at all in this situation. "All right," I said, "but you'll let me speak to Abu Adil first."

She looked suspicious. "Why is that?"

"Because I say so." I went outside with Kmuzu, where I waited in the warm sunlight while he went for the car. Madame Akwete followed me a moment later. She looked furious, but she said nothing more.

In the backseat of the sedan, I opened my briefcase and took Saied's tough-guy moddy from the rack and chipped it in. It filled me with the confident illusion that nobody could get in my way from now on, not Abu Adil, Hajjar, Kmuzu, or Friedlander Bey.

Akwete sat as far from me as she could, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her head turned away from me. I wasn't concerned with her opinion of me. I looked at Shaknahyi's brown vinyl-covered notebook again. On the first page he had written Phoenix File in large letters. Beneath that there were several entries:

Ishaq Abdul-Hadi Bouhatta—Elwau Chami (Heart,

lungs)

Andreja Svobik—Fatima Hamdan (Stomach, bowel,

liver)

Abbas Karami—Nabil Abu Khalifeh (Kidneys, liver)

Blanca Mataro—

Shaknahyi had been sure that the four names on the left were somehow connected; but in Hajjar's words, they were only "open files." Under the names, Shaknahyi had written three Arabic letters: Alif, Lam, Mim, corresponding to the Roman letters A, L, M.

What could they mean? Were they an acronym? I could probably find a hundred organizations whose initials were A.L.M. The A and L might form the definite article, and the M might be the first letter in a name: someone called al-Mansour or al-Maghrebi. Or were the letters Shaknahyi's shorthand, an abbreviation referring to a German (almani) or a diamond (almas) or something else? I wondered if I could ever discover what the three letters meant, without Shaknahyi to explain his code.

I slipped an audio chip into the car's holosystem, then put the notebook and Tema Akwete's envelope in the briefcase and locked it. While Umm Khalthoum, The Lady of the twentieth century, sang her laments, I pretended she was mourning Jirji Shaknahyi, crying for Indihar and their children. Akwete still stared out her window, ignoring me. Meanwhile, Kmuzu steered the car through the narrow, twisting streets of Hamidiyya, the slums that guarded the approach to Reda Abu Adil's man-

sion.

After a ride of nearly half an hour, we turned into the estate. Kmuzu remained in the car, pretending to doze. Akwete and I got out and went up the ceramic-tiled path to the house. When Shaknahyi and I had been here before, I'd been impressed by the luxurious gardens and the beautiful house. I noticed none of that today. I rapped on the carved wooden door and a servant answered my summons immediately, giving me an insolent look but saying nothing.

"We have business with Shaykh Reda," I said, pushing by him. "I come from Friedlander Bey."

Thanks to Saied's moddy, my manner was rude and brusque, but the servant didn't seem to be upset. He shut the door after Tema Akwete and hurried ahead of me, going down a high-ceilinged corridor, expecting us to follow. We followed. He stopped before a closed door at the end of a long, cool passage. The fragrance of roses was in the air, the smell I'd come to identify with Abu Adil's mansion. The servant hadn't said another word. He paused to give me another insolent look, then walked away.

"You wait here," I said, turning to Akwete.

She started to argue, then thought better of it. "I don't like this at all," she said.

"Too bad." I didn't know what was on the other side of the door, but I wasn't going to get anywhere standing in the hallway with her, so I grabbed the doorknob and went through.

Neither Reda Abu Adil nor his secretary, Umar Abdul-Qawy, heard me come into the office. Abu Adil was in his hospital bed, as he was the previous time I'd seen him. Umar was leaning over him. I couldn't tell what he was doing.

"Allah grant you health," I said gruffly.

Umar jerked upright and faced me. "How did you get in here?" he demanded.

"Your servant brought me to the door."

Umar nodded. "Kamal. I will have to speak to him." He looked at me more closely. "I'm sorry," he said, "I don't recall your name."

"Marîd Audran. I work for Friedlander Bey."

"Ah yes," said Umar. His expression softened just a little. "The last time, you came as a policeman."

"I'm not actually a cop. I look after Friedlander Bey's interests with the police."

A little smile curled Umar's lips. "As you wish. Are you looking after them today?"

"His interests and yours also."

Abu Adil raised a feeble hand and touched Umar's sleeve. Umar bent to hear the old man's whispered words, then straightened up again. "Shaykh Reda invites you to make yourself comfortable," said Umar. "We would have prepared suitable refreshments if you'd let us know you were coming."

I looked around for a chair and seated myself. "A very upset woman came to Friedlander Bey's house today," I said. "She represents a revolutionary government that's just socialized the Glorified Segu Kingdom." I opened my briefcase, took out the envelope from the Songhay Republic, and tossed it to Umar.

Umar looked amused. "Already? I really thought Olujimi would last longer. I suppose once you've transferred all the wealth there is in a country to a foreign bank, there's really no point in being king anymore."

"I didn't come here to talk about that." The Half-Hay's moddy was making it difficult for me to be civil to Umar. "By the terms of your agreement with Friedlander Bey, this country is under your authority. You'll find all the relevant information in that packet. I left the woman fuming outside in the hallway. She seems like a cutthroat bitch. I'm glad you have to deal with her, and not me."

Urnar shook his head. "They always try to order and reorganize our lives for us. They forget how much we can do for their cause if we're in the right mood."

I watched him play with the envelope, turning it around and around on the desk. A weak, drawn-out groan  came from Abu Adil, but I'd seen too much real pain in the world to pity the suffering of a Proxy Hell maggot. I looked back at Umar. "If you can do something to make your master more alert," I said, "Madame Akwete needs to speak with him. She seems to think the fate of the Islamic world rests on her shoulders alone."

Umar gave me an ironic smile. "The Songhay Republic," he said, shaking his head in disbelief. "Tomorrow it will be a kingdom again or a conquered province or a fascist dictatorship. And no one will care."

"Madame Akwete will care."

That amused him even more. "Madame Akwete will be one of the first to go in the new wave of purges. But we've talked enough about her. Now we must discuss the matter of your compensation."

I looked at him closely. "I didn't have any thought of payment," I said.

"Of course not. You were fulfilling the agreement, the compact between your employer and mine. Nevertheless, it's always wise to express gratitude to our friends. After all, someone who has helped you in the past is more likely to help you again. Perhaps there is some small service I may do for you in return."

This was the whole purpose behind my little jaunt into Abu Adil's part of town. I spread my hands and tried to look casual. "No, I can't think of anything," I said. "Unless ..."

"Unless what, my friend?"

I pretended to examine my boot's rundown heel. "Unless you're willing to tell me why you've installed Umm Saad in our household."

Umar pretended to be just as casual. "You must know by now that Umm Saad is a very intelligent woman, but she is by no means as clever as she believes. We wished her only to keep us apprised of Friedlander Bey's plans. We said nothing to her about confronting him directly or abusing his hospitality. She's antagonized your master, and that has made her worthless to us. You may dispose of her as you wish."

"It's only as I suspected," I said. "Friedlander Bey doesn't hold you or Shaykh Reda responsible for her actions."

Umar raised one hand in a rueful gesture. "Allah

gives us tools to use as best we can," he said. "Sometimes a tool breaks and we must discard it."

"Allah be praised," I murmured.    ,

"Praise Allah," said Umar. We seemed to be getting < along just fine now.

"One other thing," I said. "The policeman who was $

with me the last time, Officer Shaknahyi, was shot and i

killed yesterday."      I

Umar didn't stop smiling, but his brow furrowed. "We       I heard the news. Our hearts go out to his widow and children. May Allah grant them peace."

"Yeah. In any event, I greatly desire to have the man who killed him. His name is Paul Jawarski."

I looked at Abu Adil, who writhed restlessly on his hospital bed. The plump old man made a few low, unintelligible sounds, but Umar wasn't paying any attention to him. "Certainly," he said. "We'll be glad to put our resources at your disposal. If any of our associates know anything about this Jawarski, you'll be informed immediately."

I didn't like the way Umar said that. It was too glib, and he looked too unhappy. I just thanked him and stood up to go.

"A moment, Shaykh Marîd," he said in a quiet voice. He stood up and took my arm, guiding me to another exit. "I'd like to have a private word with you. Would you mind stepping into the library?"

I felt a peculiar chill. I knew this invitation was coming from Umar Abdul-Qawy, acting independently, not Umar Abdul-Qawy, the secretary of Shaykh Reda Abu Adil. "Fine," I. said.

He reached up and popped the moddy he was wearing. He hadn't spared so much as a glance at Abu Adil.

Umar held the door for me, and I went through into the library. I seated myself at a large oblong table of glossy dark wood. Umar didn't sit, however. He paced in front of a high wall lined with bookshelves, idly tossing the moddy in one hand. "I think I understand your position," he said at last.

"Which position is that?"

He waved irritably. "You know what I mean. How much longer will you be content to be Friedlander Bey's

trained dog, running and fetching for a madman who doesn't have the wit to realize he's already dead?" "You mean Papa, or Shaykh Reda?" I asked. Umar stopped pacing and frowned at me. "I'm speaking of both of them, and I'm sure you goddamn well know it."

I watched Umar for a moment, listening to the trilling of some of the songbirds that were caged all through Abu Adil's house and grounds. It gave the afternoon a false sense of peace and hopefulness. The air in the library was musty and stale. I began to feel caged myself. Maybe it had been a mistake coming here today. "What are you suggesting, Umar?" I asked.

"I'm suggesting that we begin thinking of the future. Someday, not long from now, the old men's empires will be in our hands. Hell, I run Shaykh Reda's business for him right now. He spends the whole day chipped in to ... to—"

"I know what he's got chipped in," I said. Umar nodded. "All right, then. This moddy that I use is a recent recording of his mind., He gave it to me because his only sexual kick is jamming himself, or an accurate facsimile of himself. Does that disgust you?"

"You're kidding." I'd heard much worse in my time. "Forget that, then. He doesn't realize that with his moddy, I'm his equal as far as tending to business is concerned. I am Abu Adil, but I have the added advantage of my own native skills. He is Shaykh Reda, a great man; but with this moddy, I am Shaykh Reda and Umar Abdul-Qawy together. Why do I need him?"

I found this all terrifically amusing. "Are you proposing the elimination of Abu Adil and Friedlander Bey?" Umar looked around himself nervously. "I propose no such thing," he said in a quiet voice. "There are too many other people depending on their judgment and vision. Yet there may come a day when the old men themselves are a hindrance to their own enterprises."

"When the time comes to push them aside," I said, "the right people will know it. And Friedlander Bey, at least, will not begrudge them."

"What if the time is now?" Umar asked hoarsely. "You may be ready, but I'm not prepared to take over Papa's affairs."

 "Even that problem could be solved," insisted Umar. "Possibly," I said. I didn't let any expression cross my face. I had no idea if we were being watched and recorded, and yet I didn't want to antagonize Umar. I knew now that he was a very dangerous man.

"You will learn that I am right," he said. He tossed the moddy in his hand some more, his brow furrowed again in thought. "Go back to Friedlander Bey now and think about what I've said. We'll talk again soon. If you do not share my enthusiasm, I may need to push you aside along with both our masters." I started to rise from my chair. He raised a hand to stop me. "That is not a threat, my friend," he said calmly. "It is only how I see the future." "Allah alone sees the future." He laughed cynically. "If you think that pious talk has any real meaning, I may end up with more power than Shaykh Reda ever dreamed of." He indicated another door on the south side of the library. "You may go out that way. Follow the corridor to the left, and it will lead you to the front entrance. I must go back and discuss this Songhay Republic business with the woman. You needn't worry about her. I'll send her back to her hotel with my driver."

"Thank you for your kindness," I said. "May you go in peace and safety," he said. I left the library and followed Umar's directions. Kamal, the servant, met me along the way and showed me out. Again he kept silent as we walked. I went down the steps toward the car, and then I turned to look back. Kamal stood in the doorway, staring after me as if I might be concealing stolen silverware in my clothing.

I got into the sedan. Kmuzu started the engine and swung the car around and out through the main gate. I thought about what Umar had said, what he'd offered me. Abu Adil had exercised his power for almost two centuries. Surely in all that time there had been many young men who'd filled the position Umar now held. Surely some of them had had the same ambitious ideas. Abu Adil still remained, but what had happened to those young men? Maybe Umar had never considered that question. Maybe Umar was nowhere near as smart as he thought he was.