by N Lee Wood
Above us, the door was kicked in. I heard angry shouts and the sound of wood shattering and broken glass. Now Halton was panting. I could feel his sweat against my cheek. A gun cracked below us. The bullet smacked into the wall by my face, powdered brick splintering.
I saw what he was planning a split-second before he did it, just enough time to scream “NO!” and squeeze my eyes shut. He turned like a spider monkey in the jungle, pushing off from the wall as he leaped across a four-meter-wide chasm to the next building. He hit the opposite wall with a pained grunt, his hands grabbing onto a window frame. I almost lost my grip around his neck as we jerked to a stop, hanging five stories above an alley by one hand.
“Oh God oh God oh God,” I was gibbering. Halton had one arm around his back, keeping me from falling as I tightened my grasp on his neck, the other hand clawed over the lip of the window. We dangled there for a moment before his legs skittered up, dragging the rest of his body along with mine in through the window.
Falling onto the floor, we rolled to our feet as a woman shrieked. We ducked as she threw a pot at us. I caught a glimpse of open-mouthed children as the pot splattered dark gooey stew against the wall. Then we were out of the apartment, sprinting down another stairwell, out into a garbage-strewn back alleyway. Halton boosted me by the ass over the fence, and we clambered down the other side, landing in muddy goat-urine puddles.
“Yah! There they are, get them! J’ahkzhil!” somebody shouted, and we were off and running again. Halton knew his way through the twisting suuqs and alleyways probably better than the Khuruchabjans chasing us. I just trusted him to get us the hell out of there.
I ran until my lungs were seared to ash, ran until my ears burned, then stumbled along blindly. I ran until I staggered and fell, unable to take another step. I smoked two packs a day, I’m overweight and over forty—what the hell did I expect? My heart pounded in my ears, and I felt so sick I didn’t care any longer if they shot me or not.
A second later, I was curled up with Halton’s arms around me, my back against his injured chest, his knees crushed against either side of mine. The smell of musty wool was the only sensation my brain was registering other than sheer agony.
I heard men shouting, and Halton turned my face away, pressing my cheek into his sweat-dampened shirt, his hand covering my face. My hands gripped his arms locked around me, my nails digging into his flesh. I took huge gulps of air, whimpering, my eyes squeezed shut, tears leaking past the lashes. I heard his heart thumping wildly, his quick breathing in my ear as his head bent over mine.
“Shh,” he said. “Shh.” He sounded like an anxious father hushing a newborn infant crying in his arms.
A machine gun sputtered nearby, making me jump. Halton clamped his arms tighter around me. I was sobbing, more from pain than terror, into his chest, sweat running in hot rivulets down my heaving sides. Three cars roared by, men shouting in anger and others in alarm. Another burst of gunfire echoed, but now in the distance.
Then it got so quiet, I could hear a bird trilling.
“Praise be to Allah, Lord of the Worlds…” I heard a quavering voice say.
Opening my eyes, I found myself staring at a pair of dusty ankles, callused feet shod in leather strip sandals.
“The Beneficent, the Merciful, Owner of the Day of Judgment…”
Folded piles of woven rugs were stacked to either side of where we crouched, hiding beneath a market stall. An old man stood trembling in front of us, the veins of his exposed calves under the hem of his qaftan standing out in knobby relief. I was recovering my breath, although I shivered uncontrollably, exhausted.
“Thee alone we worship, and Thee alone we ask for help. Show us the straight path…”
I continued looking up, meeting the eyes of a frightened rug seller, eyes wide over his gray beard. My mouth began to move as I stared at him.
“The path of those whom Thou hast favored…”
“Not the path of those who earn Thine anger…” I heard myself saying it with him, words my mother had repeated every day of her life. I prayed with the old man, my heart never more into it as it was at this moment. “Nor of those who go astray.”
The old man stared for a moment at us, then smiled, broken teeth stained black with tobacco.
I thought he was beautiful.
TWENTY
* * *
Halton had taken us the long way back to the same market square only a few blocks from the run-down apartment projects. We had been lucky in all the confusion that the instinctive reaction of the frightened vendors when confronted with military police was to instantly lie, point and babble and send them careening down the wrong streets and away from the open market. After their fear had subsided, curiosity and excitement bubbled to the surface. The old rug dealer held an energetic conference with the other merchants, his social importance suddenly elevated by our choosing his particular stall to duck under, and therefore his responsibility as well. After some rapid debate, we were hustled off to find Mahmud, the friend of Ibrahim’s arrested cousin, hiding in his sister-in-law’s house off the market square.
He was still dressed in his grease-monkey coveralls, oil stains on his knees and elbows matching the ingrained grease in the lines of his hands. His older brother, Majid, went through the motions of the coffee service, his eyes a little glazed. My hands shook so badly as I took the little cup from him, I nearly spilled it. I sipped methodically, then passed it on.
“They came to the garage with a holophoto of Mr. Halton,” Mahmud said, his voice low. “Then they arrested Yousef, said he had conspired with Mr. Halton. They said that Mr. Halton was a traitor and an American spy who murdered two of the palace’s Personal Guards and tried to assassinate our Sheikh.” Mahmud looked up at Halton, eyes troubled, silently asking him to deny it.
“I’m not a traitor,” Halton assured him. “I didn’t kill anyone.” I noticed he left out the part about being a spy, but Mahmud visibly relaxed, satisfied.
“How did they know to come to the garage?” the older brother asked, aggrieved. So, it was his garage. It was still a good question.
Mahmud looked at Halton thoughtfully. “It had to be King Kong,” he said finally. “That’s how you knew, too, wasn’t it?”
Halton nodded.
“Who?” I asked.
Mahmud grinned, less shaken now. “There’s a lot of people on-line who aren’t part of the Young Islamics,” he said. “Not the core, anyway. Ibrahim had the computer network set up so that if one database terminal was found and confiscated, the others couldn’t be traced. All the modems were connected by low-pulse codes, not really using enough energy to alert anyone looking for them. But if one was broken into, the rest would automatically self-destruct all the links. That protected our equipment.”
I passed him the tiny cup of coffee; he sipped and passed it to his brother before going on. “Abdullah wrote a dormant virus into all the programs sent over our lines. If the connection is broken, after the computer network goes back online recognition codes have to be entered before trying to communicate again. If they aren’t, the virus goes active and immediately destroys all the files in that database. That was to protect our information. That way, no one could steal our files.”
An elaborate, but probably necessary precaution.
“Each of us only knew of the others through telecode names, even family members. That was to protect us. No one knew where the other databases were located. Even Ibrahim doesn’t know where they all are. Except everybody knew about King Kong.”
“And King Kong was… ?” I had already guessed.
“His Excellency, Sheikh Lawrence Abdul al Rashid.” The royal computer hacker, who else?
“King Kong only knew one of us by our real names. Yousef. Ibrahim was very angry when he found out; he threatened to expel Yousef from the group. But about the only thing King Kong was ever interested in was hologame programs—I don’t even think he knew much about any of the political communications. That’s probab
ly the only reason Ibrahim let Yousef stay.”
“But it still left a weak link in the chain.”
Mahmud nodded glumly. “Yeah.”
And dollars to donuts, his good buddy and playing partner, al-Hasmani, had been monitoring King Kong’s on-line conversation for some time. No one else would have had either the access or the expertise to know what Larry was doing.
Except Halton.
I thought about telling Mahmud about Larry’s death, then decided that might be a bit touchy. “Mahmud, I’d be very careful about communicating with ‘King Kong.’”
He snorted wryly. “Tell me about it!”
“What I mean is, if King Kong comes back on-line, I would have serious doubts it’s really His Excellency.” That’s about as close as I could come to the truth. Mahmud looked surprised, then chagrined as if he should have thought of that himself.
A woman appeared in the doorway, Mahmud’s sister-in-law, I would have guessed. Her eyes over the yashmak were frightened. Her husband didn’t admonish her for breaking into a meeting of men, but stood looking at her.
“Ibrahim’s been arrested,” she said, almost whispering.
“Yah sa’laam, khalah damm’aq,” Majid breathed. Loosely translated it meant “We’re knee-deep in shit now.”
“The computer network?” I asked Mahmud sharply.
He shook his head. “No way. Khalid got Yousef’s computer out before the police got to the room,” Mahmud said firmly. “When he broke the modem connection before entering the code, it’s a signal. Everybody else’s disconnects. They won’t be able to trace anyone through our network.” He looked glum. “Ibrahim is Yousef’s cousin. They’re probably just arresting all of Yousef’s relatives—that’s what they usually do.”
Majid turned to us grimly. “But too many people know about the garage. It’s only a matter of time before they come back.” He left unspoken what I already knew. If the military police found us here, they would throw his entire family in prison, tear down his garage, destroy his house and, if he was lucky, summarily execute him. We had to leave.
Majid looked at his wife, and she nodded wordlessly. “My wife will take our children and go where it is safe. I must stay. Everything must seem normal. If I leave also, when they return they will know something is wrong.”
“They’ll have the airports covered by now,” Halton said to me.
“Maybe a public bus, or a train, if we disguised ourselves…” I was thinking as quickly as I could.
“I have another car,” Majid said reluctantly. “Not a great car, but it runs. I bought it from my uncle in Shardamuzh. You can go there; he will know this car. It’s near the border; you could leave it at his house. He’ll take you to where you can walk across.” He smiled, his first smile that evening, and a bleak one at that. “At least I may be able to save my uncle’s car.”
He left to get the key, speaking rapidly to his wife as she followed him.
“I’m sorry, Mahmud,” I said to the boy. “I’ve put you and your family at risk with my problems.”
He shrugged, false bravado barely covering his worry. “This is Nok Kuzlat,” he said. “You learn how to live dangerously, or you don’t live. We’re strong. We’ll be all right.”
I inhaled, gauging my next words.
“Mahmud,” I said, “I have to ask you to do something else, something which is very important and also very dangerous.” Cautiously, he glanced up at me. He had no reason to do me any further favors, but after a moment he nodded sharply.
“I left my PortaNet at Yousef’s place when the police came.”
“They’ve probably taken it, then,” Mahmud said.
“Check. If they haven’t, take it to Ahmat; he knows how to run it. If they have, find a TVN reporter called Jefferson Carleby.” I took out the call card from my wallet and fished the slipclip out of my pocket, knowing I was trusting him with my only hope for protection. “Tell him to blip this to the GBN Cairo Relay station, and tell the man on the other end, ‘Sailor’s in trouble, make a multiple SDB.’ You got that?”
“GBN Cairo Relay, Sailor is in trouble, multiple SDB.” Mahmud’s English would do. He was nodding earnestly.
“It’s important, Mahmud, not just for us, but for you and your country. But if you don’t get this blipped to Cairo, Halton and I will die, and so will anyone who’s caught with it.” Mahmud’s eyes looked as if they’d fall out. “We’ll make a run for the border. You’ve got to get this sent to Cairo, Mahmud. Then destroy it.”
“Wijh-hya’at abuuya,” Mahmud said. On my father’s life. He stared down at the slipclip in his hand as if he were holding a scorpion with a hangover.
Hopefully, my smartass American friend would be working the Cairo station, and would know to relay the clip into several of GBN’s “safety deposit boxes” scattered around the world, each spinning off another copy of itself before it moved on, growing fractally at random. It was the only hope I had of taking out any sort of life insurance for Halton and myself.
“We’ll owe you a big one, Mahmud,” I promised him.
He pushed the clip into his pocket and nailed me with a hard look. “Damn straight,” he said. Nothing for nothing, not here.
Majid returned with a couple of striped qabah and two frayed kaffiyehs over one arm. He handed me a key with a paper tag tied to it with a twist of wire as Halton pulled on a qabah, then adjusted one of the kaffiyehs around his head.
“It’s a Volvo, behind the garage,” Majid said. “My uncle’s name and address is on the vehicle registration in the glove box.”
Mahmud had the curtain over the little window lifted by a finger, glancing down into the road. “Fi’ih râagihl bzkarrah,” he whispered. I skittered over to the side of the window, looking out sideways. He was right, there was a man outside. He stood in front of the house, looking at a sheet of paper in his hand, then up at the house. He disappeared from our view as he walked up the stairway and knocked on the front door.
Mahmud and Majid exchanged looks, then woodenly, Majid left the room. We crowded near the doorway, barely breathing, straining to hear the low voices. For a second, I had the bizarre image of ourselves as we might have been, in a different time, different place… a different people. Jews trembling behind a door, yellow stars sewn on their clothes, as the Gestapo officer interrogated the landlord.
Majid returned with a relieved smile. “It’s the father of the Toyota Tri-star coupe with the bad differential,” he said to Mahmud. “His son asked him to pick it up for him today.” He turned to Halton and me. “My wife will show you out the back way. Be gentle with the transmission, I didn’t have time to repair it.” He hesitated, then said, “Mazhasala’ama.” Good luck.
That we were putting him and his family in extreme danger wasn’t mentioned, it was the will of Allah and a matter of honor now, our fate bound with theirs.
Please, God, I prayed. Whichever God You are.
The change of clothes was a poor disguise, but we wrapped our faces with the kaffiyehs, and walked calmly to the garage. I wished desperately I could have been born about two inches taller. I felt like Mutt and Jeff next to Halton, and conspicuous as hell. Around the back, we found the ancient little Volvo, its gray hulk dented and rusted. The doors squealed as we got in, and had to be slammed hard to catch. The floor was littered with trash, empty fast-food wrappers, a child’s comb with most of the teeth missing, empty Coke bottles and bits of anonymous things that didn’t bear close inspection all soaking in a greasy puddle of black motor oil.
A large square of sun-faded green-and-gold plastic had been glued over the dash and decorated with plastic flowers. Someone’s souvenir from hadj, a quote of Qur’anic scripture. “A Pilgrimage to the House of Mecca is a duty unto Allah for mankind, for him who can find a way thither,” it read. “Whence soever thou comest forth, turn thy face toward the Holy Place of Worship, and where soever ye may be, turn your faces toward it. Fear not but Me, and so that I may complete My Grace upon you and ye may be gu
ided.”
I giggled, more from nerves than humor. “I don’ care if the hot winds blowerin’, s’long’s I got mah plastic Qur’an sittin’ on the dashboard of mah carrrr…” I sang off-key. Halton looked at me quizzically as he jiggled the key into the ignition. Before his time, I guessed.
Majid was not fastidious, but his skill as a mechanic was evident as the engine started up with only the slightest of grumbles. An ancient CD disc whined to life in the car’s music deck, a woman’s ululating voice quavering its way through the halftones of an Arabic love song. I winced and turned it off as Halton slipped the old car into gear and eased it out onto the alley behind the garage.
Halton drove, since his ability to navigate through Nok Kuzlat was superior to mine. It was slow maneuvering down the narrow back streets, through the maze, out on the ring peripheral road leading north out onto the long stretch of brown highway.
“Oh, shit,” I said. We had stopped at the tail end of a roadblock, uniformed soldiers with machine guns wandering up the long column, bending over to peer into cars and interrogate the drivers. We couldn’t turn around without calling attention to ourselves. Stupid, stupid, stupid, I cursed myself silently. Of course they’d have cut off the roads. I unwrapped the kaffiyeh from around my head, knowing it wasn’t going to work.
“They’re going to have holophotos of us, Halton,” I said, glum.
Halton leaned down and rubbed the palm of one hand in the pool of filthy oil while adjusting the rearview mirror with the other. Quickly, he dabbed the blackened grease onto his face.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Utilizing available resources in the attempt to improvise a credible disguise,” he said, then ran his oil-stained hand through his hair, using the remaining teeth on the child’s comb to slick it down on his scalp. He hesitated for a moment, considering, then wiped his hands artistically on the qabah.
