Looking for the Mahdi

by N Lee Wood

  “Still in the can, is he? Well, look, if we get separated,” I said helpfully, “I’m just popping over to the British Consulate for an hour or so, so he doesn’t need to hurry and risk catching his dong in his fly, okay?”

  The watchdog glared at me with sheer hatred in his eyes. Sure enough, his cohort shuffled hastily out of the men’s room, jiggling the zipper on his pants.

  I knew it wasn’t smart to hassle these guys too badly, and to be honest, my heart wasn’t much into it. It was more for form’s sake, to cover up my own nervousness.

  The security screen at the British Consulate didn’t pick up the micro-recorder, but they confiscated my Swiss Army knife and a ballpoint pen in my shirt pocket before a British military officer escorted me to the main desk.

  “Kay Bee Sulaiman,” I said to another of the stoic carboncopy receptionists. “I’m here to see Mr. Thomas Clermont, please.”

  The receptionist picked up the phone, speaking briefly to someone on the screen I couldn’t see before he hung up and laced his fingers together primly. “I’m sorry, Mr. Sulaiman, it appears you haven’t an appointment. If you’d care to make one, I’m sure…”

  I was getting pissed off. “Call him back and tell him I’m a close personal friend of Elias Somerton. I really think Mr. Clermont would like to see me.”

  “Sir, really now. I…”

  “Just do it.”

  The receptionist regarded me with disdainful eyes for a long, hostile moment. When he set the phone down the second time, he said icily, “Mr. Clermont’s offices are on the third floor, to your left. The sergeant will escort you.”

  Clermont didn’t keep me waiting in his outer office, not even long enough to make a point. When he opened the door to the waiting room, he looked haggard.

  “Sulaiman,” he said shortly. I stood up.

  “Hullo, Tommy—”

  He cut me off. “We can talk in my office,” he said, turning on his heel and walking off.

  I followed him down a corridor, offices on either side with no names on the door. The hallway terminated at a medium-sized office, its door likewise blank. Inside, the room was strangely barren of any personal items. He closed the door carefully behind us. The desk was uncluttered, no photos of family, no personal mementos or paintings on the wall. A room to meet people from the outside, sterile and safe. Clermont sat down behind the desk, and I sat in one of a pair of chairs so unused, the new smell had yet to wear off the fabric.

  “I came to take you up on your offer, Clermont.”

  “What offer would that be?” His eyes were spiritless. No doubt the room was thoroughly bugged.

  “I want to interview one of Nok Kuzlat’s prisoners. The Brit who was arrested yesterday, Nathan Mitchell.”

  He didn’t react. “I’m sorry, that’s not possible.”

  My eyes narrowed. “I thought you said you could arrange it so I could see anyone I wanted being held by the Khuruchabjan authorities.”

  He stared at me, his face devoid of expression. “You misunderstood me, Mr. Sulaiman. In any case, the welfare of British nationals is the concern of the British government, not GBN News, nor yours. I’m sorry, it is simply impossible for you to see Mr. Mitchell at this time.”

  His voice was completely neutral, the practiced tone of a diplomat. It didn’t match the hollowness in his eyes. The same kind of troubled look Mitchell had worn on camera the night before.

  There was something missing here. “Is it you won’t, or you can’t?” I insisted. “You know I know who he is. What the hell’s going on, Clermont?”

  The arrogant, disdainful man I’d talked to in Heroes Square was gone. He looked tired and shaken. He sighed, his eyes drifting around the barren room to avoid looking at me.

  “Unfortunately, Mr. Mitchell suffered a heart attack shortly after his arrest,” Clermont said in a dull voice. “He died early this morning. His Majesty’s government is making arrangements with the Khuruchabjans for the return of the body to England.”

  My skin chilled. “And I’ll just bet the coroner’s report is going to say any unusual marks on the corpse were from some overly enthusiastic first aid, right?”

  Clermont’s eyes bored into me. “Mr. Sulaiman, I really have no idea what you’re implying.”

  “That a fact. And you don’t know anything about a microflake, either?” I put as much scorn and skepticism into my words as I dared.

  He stood up. Strangely, he was not angry. “Mr. Sulaiman, I don’t think we really have anything further to discuss.”

  I stayed seated. “You know I don’t have it. You know who had it last. And you know why Mitchell was killed, if that’s even his real name.” He walked toward the door, as I added quickly, “Talk to me, Clermont, maybe we can help each other. I don’t want to have to keep nosing around until someone tells me something.”

  He stopped with his hand on the doorknob, his eyes averted. “I would strongly advise you to desist from this line of questioning.”

  “Or what? I’ll end up having a heart attack, too? Or maybe a fatal ‘car accident’ like Khatijah? Who killed Mitchell?”

  He didn’t open the door, turning to face me. He wasn’t angry.

  He was scared.

  “Listen to me, Sulaiman,” he said in a near whisper. “You’re in over your head, you haven’t any idea what you’re involved with. As a representative of His Majesty’s government, I feel obliged to give you some advice. You’re a reporter, that’s fine. Report whatever news you want. But you’re not a police detective. So keep your mouth shut and your eyes open, that’s all. Don’t get involved.”

  He was sweating, his eyes darting around the room again, clearly wary of saying too much, or too little. “Too many things are going wrong, and people are starting to be hurt. I don’t know where you get the idea that journalists are immune to bullets, but if you keep shoving your way around, you’re going to find out very quickly you can be hurt, too.”

  “Is that a threat?” I said quietly.

  He stared at me. “No. It’s a friendly warning. Sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong is going to get it cut off, and other people killed, good people.” He sounded desperate. “People I’m responsible for. People I care about.”

  I stared back at him. “I got dragged into this mess against my will, but I’m not going to be scared off now. Talk to me, Clermont,” I pressed.

  For a moment I thought he might. He hesitated, shaking, his face bloodless under his tan, turning it an odd shade of gray.

  “My sources are kept strictly confidential, Clermont. I swear you can trust me. Journalists are capable of keeping secrets, too, you know; probably even better than you can.”

  He laughed, a harsh bark that sounded like a groan.

  “Talk to me…”

  He shook himself, as if struggling to wake up from a bad dream. “Go home, Sulaiman,” he said in a low voice. “Get on the next plane out and go home.”

  “No.”

  “Then you’re a fool.”

  He opened the door, and I followed him as he walked stiffly down the short corridor.

  “Clermont…”

  He opened the outer door, and spoke to the uniformed British officer. “Please be so kind as to escort Mr. Sulaiman out of the Consulate,” he said before turning around to walk away without looking at me, his spine tense.

  I was very cordially and graciously tossed out of the building, left fuming with impotence at the polite, iron refusal to allow me back in to speak to Clermont’s superior.

  When I got back to the hotel a flock of intrepid tourists bused in on an obscure tour group were blocking the doorway with the usual glut of baggage, all quarreling at top volume with the harried desk clerk in a tongue I’d have guessed was either Punjabi or Urdu. No doubt Halton would have known which, I thought sourly.

  The two shadows I’d needled had been replaced with a new pair of shadows infesting the lobby, tucked behind their newspapers. The freelancer friend of Carl’s was also waiting nervo
usly in the lobby for me, standing up like a jack-in-the-box when I stomped in.

  “Sulaiman? GBN News?” he asked with a jittery smile.

  I stuck my hand out automatically to shake his. “You the new optics guy?” I had to raise my voice to be heard over the noise.

  “Yeah,” he said, hesitated, then added, “I mean, actually, no.”

  “Come again?”

  “I’m sorry, I got a conflict. I can’t cover for you. I’m really sorry…”

  “This is kind of short notice, kid,” I said, not pleased. “Think you can recommend somebody else?”

  He grimaced, uncomfortable. “Ummm, well… not really.”

  Then I understood. I wasn’t going to find any optics man in Nok Kuzlat. In a business where people only survive by taking care of each other, this was most unusual. A few seconds later, I discovered that the optics kid hadn’t been frightened off by threats. He simply knew I wasn’t going to be around long enough for him to work for and if he wanted to keep on working in Khuruchabja himself, he wouldn’t try, either.

  “Mr. Sulaiman.” The Khuruchabjan in the colonel’s uniform shouldered his way through the gaggle of angry tourists and strolled over to hand me a large, single-paged document. I was being pinged: PNG, persona non grata. “Your visa into Khuruchabja has been revoked. You are expected to leave this country no later than tomorrow morning or you will be arrested as an illegal foreigner suspected of espionage.”

  I scanned the paper quickly. In both Arabic and English, it spelled out clearly, “Yankee Go Home.” When I looked up, the optics kid had faded away. A few of the tourists were staring curiously.

  “This is ridiculous. Why?” I demanded. “For what reason?”

  The colonel smiled humorlessly. “None. We don’t need one, Mr. Sulaiman. We simply don’t want you here anymore.”

  “Clermont’s behind this, isn’t he?” I cursed.

  The colonel looked offended. “The Khuruchabjan government does not need approval or permission from the British to expel any undesirables from our own country,” he said indignantly.

  Maybe not. The order sure got here goddamned fast if Clermont was behind it.

  “I’m going to file a formal protest with my government and with my news bureau,” I warned him, frustration making it hard to speak.

  He shrugged. “As you like,” he said, unconcerned. “Just be on that plane tomorrow morning.” He didn’t bother to add the or else as he took a step back, saluted me sardonically, and left.

  The two watchdogs smirked at me over the top of their papers as I headed for the elevator. Once in the room, I did a quick extermination sweep with the Raid, pried the recording chip out of my belt with a fingernail and wired it into the PortaNet.

  At least I could replay the conversation with Clermont, listen to the words again for anything hidden in them, maybe run it through a voice-stress analyzer, anything…

  Except there was nothing on it but static.

  I stared at the Net uncomprehendingly, then checked the chip again with a growing sense of dread, just to make sure I hadn’t screwed up, but the Net was working okay.

  There was nothing wrong with either my PortaNet or the chip. It had recorded all right, but there was nothing on it except a steady hiss of white noise.

  I vibrated with sudden anger. The rage I’d been keeping in check for so long took over, a mindless white haze of fury, and I found myself standing breathless and exhausted half an hour later. The hotel room was completely trashed. Feathers drifted from torn pillows, the curtains hung in shreds. I was drenched in sweat and panting, grinning like a maniac but with no trace of good humor left to account for it.

  Let CDI pay for the damage, screw them. I shook the broken glass off the bedspread and began calmly packing my bags in the middle of the wreckage.

  NINETEEN

  * * *

  Ihad a peaceful dinner at the hotel restaurant overlooking the beautiful rooftops of Nok Kuzlat. After I’d finished, I took the PortaNet out under the bright stars to sip strong coffee and make a private call to Arlando, top scramble.

  I had expected him to show more enthusiasm after I’d poured everything out I could about the faked attempted assassination and Halton’s “heroic” rescue, the strange circumstances surrounding Somerton-Mitchel’s death, Clermont possibly being behind getting my visa pulled.

  Most of the conversation was in the cryptic tongue used between journalists. Even so, for some reason I held back on spilling my guts about actually cracking the microflake at Ibrahim al-Ruwala’s little computer-hacker club, or the circumstances surrounding the untimely death of the Sheikh’s wife. I also didn’t bother going into much detail about Halton’s suspicions over his employer’s intentions for him.

  Arlando sat unresponsive until I was finished.

  “You got anything on clip, Kay Bee?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like the so-called assassination attempt? Any way to prove it wasn’t just what it seemed? Can you trace who the poor schmuck was they set up? Interviews with witnesses? Hard documentation of any kind on this Mitchell guy? Who he really was or who he was working for? Or Clermont? Anything?”

  “No.” I was reluctant to say it.

  “Then you’ve got nothing. Allegations and hearsay are not a news story. You know better than that.”

  “Come on, you know something fishy’s going on. This place is like a firecracker with the fuse going. I can feel it!” I couldn’t believe it. “You’re not going to even try to follow up on this, Arlando?”

  He frowned and shook his head. “Not without something a lot harder. Responsible journalism, Munadi. We don’t do yellow sensationalism, okay? So you got your visa revoked, big deal. It’s an occupational hazard, happens all the time. You’ve done what you were supposed to do. Now get on the plane and come home.”

  I stared at him with my jaw hanging open, speechless. “You haven’t just been blackmailed, Arlando,” I finally blurted out. “You’re collaborating with those bastards. I can’t believe it! Whose side are you on, anyway?”

  His stony expression didn’t waver. “Your side, whatever you believe right now. Listen to me. You’re tired and upset. You’re not thinking straight and you’re losing your objectivity. You’re no good there, so get on the plane tomorrow and come home.”

  “But…”

  “Get the hell out of there, Kay Bee.” He didn’t raise his voice. It was much scarier that way. Suddenly, I was scared. “Just get on the goddamned plane and get your ass out of there, you got that?”

  “Got it.”

  “Good.”

  I didn’t sleep well that night.

  The puddle-jumper going out of Nok Kuzlat to Cairo only stopped once a day, scheduled tomorrow for ten-thirty in the morning. If I missed it, I’d have to wait until the next day, which meant arguing with the authorities about my visa from inside a jail cell. I decided to leave for the airport six hours early, entirely too familiar with small Middle-Eastern carriers’ idiosyncrasies, and nervous about a screwup. I’d rather be half a day early than a single minute too late.

  The front desk rang the room to say they had my ticket at the desk and a taxi waiting as I snapped the last latch on my PortaNet. I grabbed my suitcase on the way out the door. Even while I was being ignominiously kicked out of the country against my will, I was still very glad to be going home.

  I signed the bill without bothering to check over the extensive itemization, adding that there might be additional charges after the maid went up. The dark-eyed night clerk frowned; not even the two 500-Khuru rial notes I laid on the counter alleviated his apprehension. He rang for the bellhop before scurrying off to investigate the damage for himself. No doubt it would be added retroactively to the bill, along with a few more inflated items in reprisal, but that was just fine with me; CDI was paying for it, anyway.

  I glanced around the lobby for the pair of shadows, but they were nowhere to be seen. Except for the sleepy-eyed bellhop, the lobby was deserted
. That didn’t necessarily mean anything.

  At four-thirty, the air was cool, a pearly-gray sheen in the early morning sky. The traffic was light, lethargic pedestrians on the streets returning from predawn mosque. An old man leading two tasseled and heavily burdened camels weaved his way around cars parked with scattered disorder against the curb, on the sidewalks, sprawled half in the street wherever their drivers had abandoned them for the night. Leaving early would avoid the rush-hour destruction-derby.

  The taxi driver had already transferred his spare tire into the front passenger seat. His taxi doubled as a rolling 7-Eleven, and the open trunk was near-full with various crates of illicit merchandise he sold on the side to supplement his taxi earnings. He was having trouble rearranging the goods to make room for both me and my luggage. The bellhop had taken my single small suitcase three yards and set it down on the sidewalk, waiting pointedly for a tip before shambling back into the hotel.

  I had the PortaNet strapped to my shoulder, drumming my fingers against its case impatiently as the driver explained apologetically, shifting this box of powdered orange drink, that carton of AA batteries, when Halton materialized from the shadows of the hotel’s shrubbery. I didn’t see him until he touched me on the arm, scaring the bejesus out of me. I muffled a shriek as I recognized him.

  “Well, hello, John,” I said, pouring as much contempt into my voice as I could. “Come to see me off? How thoughtful of…”

  “I think I’m in trouble, Kay Bee,” he said quietly.

  The taxi driver finally slammed the trunk of his taxi shut, and looked at us expectantly.

  “Ain’t that too bad,” I sneered, hating myself for it. “You’re no longer my concern, isn’t that what you said?”

  He stood with his back to the driver, his eyes obscure in the early morning light leeching everything of color. “I can follow the taxi,” he said, as if he hadn’t heard me. “Have the driver stop anywhere, before you get out of the city limits, but tell him to go on to the airport.”