A Fire in the Sun (13 page)

Shaknahyi presented our credentials to the guard. "We're here to see Shaykh Reda," he said. The guard picked up a phone and spoke to someone. After a moment, he let us continue.

"A century or more ago," Shaknahyi said thoughtfully, "crime bosses had these big illicit schemes to make money. Sometimes they also operated small legal businesses for practical reasons, like laundering their money."

"Yeah? So?" I said.

"Look at it: You say Reda Abu Adil and Friedlander Bey are two of the most powerful men in the world, as 'consultants' to foreign states. That's entirely legitimate. Their criminal connections are much less important. They just provide livelihoods for the old men's dependents and associates. Things have gotten turned around ass-back-wards."

"That's progress," I said. Shaknahyi just shook his head.

We got out of the patrol car, into the warm afternoon sunshine. The grounds in front of Abu Adil's house had been carefully landscaped. The fragrance of roses was in the air, and the strong, pleasant scent of lemons. There were cages of songbirds on either side of an ancient stone fountain, and the warbling music filled the afternoon with a languorous peace. We went up the ceramic-tiled path to the mansion's geometrically carved front door. A servant had already opened it and was waiting for us to explain our business.

"I'm Officer Shaknahyi and this is Marîd Audran. We've come to see Shaykh Reda."

The servant nodded but said nothing. We followed him into the house, and he closed the heavy wooden door behind us. Sunlight streamed in from latticed windows high over our heads. From far away I heard the sound of someone playing a piano. I could smell lamb roasting and coffee brewing. The squalor only a stone's throw away had been completely shut out. The house was a self-contained little world, and I'm sure that's just as Abu Adil intended it.

We were led directly into Abu Adil's presence. I couldn't even get in to see Friedlander Bey that quickly.

Reda Abu Adil was a large, plump old man. He was like Papa in that it was impossible to guess just how old he might be. I knew for a fact that he was at least a hundred twenty-five. It wouldn't surprise me to learn that he was just as old as Friedlander Bey. He was wearing a loose white robe and no jewelry. He had a carefully trimmed white beard and mustache and thick white hair, out of which poked a dove-gray moddy with two daddies snapped in. I was expert enough to notice that Abu Adil did not have a protruding plug, as I had; his hardware chipped into a corymbic socket.

Abu Adil reclined on a hospital bed that had been elevated so that he could see us comfortably as we spoke. He was covered by an expensive hand-embroidered blanket. His gnarled hands lay outside the cover, flat on either side of his body. His eyes were heavy-lidded, as if he were drugged or desperately sleepy. He grimaced and groaned frequently while we stood there. We waited for him to say something.

He did not. Instead, a younger man standing beside the hospital bed spoke up. "Shaykh Reda welcomes you to his home. My name is Umar Abdul-Qawy. You may address Shaykh Reda through me."

This Umar person was about fifty years old. He had bright, mistrustful eyes and a sour expression that looked like it never changed. He too looked well fed, and he was dressed in an impressive gold-colored robe and metallic blue caftan. He wore nothing on his head and, like his master, a moddy divided his thinning hair. I disliked him from the getgo.

It was clear to me that I was facing my opposite number. Umar Abdul-Qawy did for Abu Adil what I did for Friedlander Bey, although I'm sure he'd been at it longer and was more intimate with the inner workings of his master's empire. "If this is a bad time," I said, "we can come back again."

"This is a bad time," said Umar. "Shaykh Reda suffers the torments of terminal cancer. You see, then, that another time would not necessarily be better."

"We pray for his well-being," I said.

A tiny smile quirked the edge of Abu Adil's lips. "Allah yisallimak," said Umar. "God bless you. Now, what has brought you to us this afternoon?"

This was inexcusably blunt. In the Muslim world, you don't inquire after a visitor's business. Custom further requires that the laws of hospitality be observed, if only minimally. I'd expected to be served coffee, if not offered a meal as well. I looked at Shaknahyi.

It didn't seem to bother him. "What dealings does Shaykh Reda have with Friedlander Bey?"

That seemed to startle Umar. "Why, none at all," he said, spreading his hands. Abu Adil gave a long, pain-filled

 moan and closed his eyes tightly. Umar didn't even turn in his direction.

"Then Shaykh Reda does not communicate at all with him?" Shaknahyi asked.

"Not at all. Friedlander Bey is a great and influential man, but his interests lie in a distant part of the city. The two shaykhs have never discussed anything of a business nature. Their concerns do not meet at any point."

"And so Friedlander Bey is no hindrance or obstacle to Shaykh Reda's plans?"

"Look at my master," said Umar. "What sort of plans do you think he has?" Indeed, Abu Adil looked entirely helpless in his agony. I wondered what had made Lieutenant Hajjar set us on this fool's errand.

"We received some information, and we had to check it out," said Shaknahyi. "We're sorry for the intrusion."

"That's quite all right. Karnal will see you to the door." Umar stared at us with a stony expression. Abu Adil, however, made an attempt to raise his hand in farewell or blessing, but it fell back limply to the blanket.

We followed the servant back to the front door. When we were alone again outside, Shaknahyi began to laugh. "That was some performance," he said.

"What performance? Did I miss something?"

"If you'd read the file all the way through, you'd know that Abu Adil doesn't have cancer. He's never had cancer."

"Then—"

Shaknahyi's mouth twisted in contempt. "You ever hear of Proxy Hell? It's a bunch of lunatics who wear bootleg, underground moddies turned out in somebody's back room. They're recordings taken from real people in horrible situations."

I was dismayed. "Is that what Abu Adil's doing? Wearing the personality module of a terminal cancer patient?"

Shaknahyi nodded as he opened the car door and got in. "He's chipped into vicarious pain and suffering. You can buy any kind of disease or condition you want on the black market. There are plenty of deranged masochists like him out there."

I joined him in the patrol car. "And I thought the girls and debs on the Street were misusing the moddies. This adds a whole new meaning to the word perversion." Shaknahyi started up the car and drove around the fountain toward the gate. "They introduce some new technology and no matter how much good it does for most people, there's always a crazy son of a bitch who'll find something twisted to do with it."

I thought about that, and about my own bodmods, as we drove back to the station house through the wretched district that was home to Reda Abu Adil's faithful followers.

Chapter 7

During the next week, I spent as much time in the patrol car as I did at my computer on the third floor of the station house. I felt good after my first experiences as a cop on patrol, although it was clear that I still had a lot to learn from Shaknahyi. We intervened in domestic squabbles and investigated robberies, but there were no more dramatic crises like Al-Muntaqim's clumsy bomb threat.

Shaknahyi had let several days pass, and now he wanted to follow up on our visit to Reda Abu Adil. He guessed that Friedlander Bey had told Lieutenant Hajjar to assign this investigation to us, but Papa was still pretending he wasn't interested in whatever it was about. Our delicate probing would be a lot more successful if someone would just tell us what we were trying to uncover.

Yet there were other concerns on my mind. One morning, after I'd dressed and Kmuzu had served me breakfast, I sat back and thought about what I wanted to accomplish that day.

"Kmuzu," I said, "would you wake my mother and see if she'll speak to me? I need to ask her something before I go to the station house."

"Of course, yaa Sidi." He looked at me warily, as if I were trying to pull another fast one. "You wish to see her immediately?"

"Soon as she can make herself decent. If she can make herself decent." I caught Kmuzu's disapproving expression and shut up.

I drank some more coffee until he returned. "Umm Marîd will be glad to see you now," Kmuzu said.

I was surprised. "She never liked getting up much before noon."

"She was already awake and dressed when I knocked on her door."

Maybe she'd turned over a new leaf, but I hadn't been listening close enough to hear it. I grabbed my briefcase and sport coat. "I'll just drop in on her for a couple of minutes," I said. "No need for you to come with me." I should have known better by then; Kmuzu didn't say a word, but he followed me out of the apartment and into the other wing, where Angel Monroe had been given her own suite of rooms.

"This is a personal matter," I told Kmuzu when we got to her door. "Stay out here in the hall if you want." I rapped on the door and went in.

She was reclining on a divan, dressed very modestly in a shapeless black dress with long sleeves, a version of the outfit conservative Muslim women wear. She also had on a large scarf hiding her hair, although the veil over her face had been loosened on one side and hung down over her shoulder. She puffed on the mouthpiece of a narjilah. There was strong tobacco in the water pipe now, but that didn't mean there hadn't been hashish there recently, or that it wouldn't be there again soon.

"Morning of well-being, O my mother," I said.

I think she was caught off guard by my courteous greeting. "Morning of light, O Shaykh," she replied. Her brow furrowed as she studied me from across the room. She waited for me to explain why I was there.

"Are you comfortable here?" I asked.

"It's all right." She took a long pull on the mouthpiece and the narjilah burbled. "You done pretty well for yourself. How'd you happen to land in this lap of luxury? Performing personal services for Papa?" She gave me a crooked leer.

"Not the services you're thinking of, O Mother. I'm Friedlander Bey's administrative assistant. He makes the business decisions and I carry them out. That's as far as it goes."

"And one of his business decisions was to make you a cop?"

"That's exactly the way it was."

She shrugged. "Uh yeah, if you say so. So why'd you

decide to put me up here? Suddenly worried about your old mom's welfare?"

"It was Papa's idea."

She laughed. "You never was an attentive child, O Shaykh."

"As I recall, you weren't the doting mother, either. That's why I'm wondering why you showed up here all of a sudden."

She inhaled again on the narjilah. "Algiers is boring, I lived there most of my life. After you came to see me, I knew I had to get out. I wanted to come here, see the city again."

"And see me again?"

She gave me another shrug. "Yeah, that too."

"And Abu Adil? You drop by his palace first, or haven't you been over there yet?" That's what we in the cop trade call a shot in the dark. Sometimes they pay off, sometimes they don't.

"I ain't having nothing more to do with that son of a bitch," she said. She almost snarled.

Shaknahyi would have been proud of me. I kept my emotions under control and my expression neutral. "What's Abu Adil ever done to you?"

"That sick bastard. Never mind, it's none of your business." She concentrated on her water pipe for a few moments.

"All right," I said. "I'll respect your wishes, O my mother. Anything I can do for you before I leave?"

"Everything's great. You run along and play Protector of the Innocent. Go roust some poor working girl and think of me."

I opened my mouth to make some sharp reply, but I caught myself in time. "You get hungry, or you need anything, just ask Youssef or Kmuzu. May your day be happy."

"Your day be prosperous, O Shaykh." Whenever she called me that, there was heavy irony in her voice.

I nodded to her and left the room, closing the door quietly behind me. Kmuzu was in the corridor, right where I'd left him. He was so goddamn loyal, I almost felt like scratching him behind the ears. I didn't buy that act for a minute.

"It would be well for you to greet the master of the house before we leave for the police station," he said.

"I don't need you to rehearse me on my manners, Kmuzu." He had this way of annoying me. "Are you implying that I don't know my duties?"

"I imply nothing, yaa Sidi. You are inferring."

"Sure." You just can't argue with a slave.

Friedlander Bey was already in his office. He sat behind his great desk, massaging his temples with one hand. Today he was wearing a pale yellow silk robe with a starched white shirt over it, buttoned to the neck and with ho tie. Over the shirt he had on an expensive-looking herringbone-tweed suit jacket. It was a costume only an old and revered shaykh could get away with wearing. I thought it looked just fine. "Habib," he said. "Labib."

Habib and Labib are the Stones That Speak. The only way you can tell them apart is to call one of the names. There's an even chance one of 'em will blink. If not, it doesn't really make any difference. In fact, I couldn't swear that they blink in response to their own names. They may be doing it just for fun.

Both of the Stones That Speak were in the office, standing on either side of a straight-backed chair. In the chair, I was surprised to see, was Umm Saad's young son. The Stones each had one hand on Saad's shoulders, and the hands were kneading and crushing the boy's bones. He was being put to the question. I've had that treatment, and I can testify that it isn't a lick of fun.

Papa smiled briefly when I came into the room. He did not greet me, but looked back at Saad. "Before you came to the city," he said in a low voice, "where did you and your mother dwell?"

"Many places," Saad answered. There was fear in his voice.

Papa returned to rubbing his forehead. He stared down at his desktop, but waved a few fingers at the Stones That Speak. The two huge men tightened their grip on the boy's shoulders. The blood drained from Saad's face, and he gasped.