Bin Turki said hardly a word. He sat with his face pressed against the port, occasionally making excited comments or stifled exclamations. It was good to have him with us, because he reminded me of what it was like before I'd become so jaded with modern life. All of this was new to bin Turki, who'd stuck out like a hayseed hick in the poor crossroads town of Salala. I shuddered to think what might happen to him when he got home. I didn't know whether to corrupt him as quickly as possible—so he'd have defenses against the wolves of the Budayeen—or protect his lovely innocence.
"Flight time from Qishn to Damascus will be forty minutes," the captain of the suborbital announced. "Everyone on board should make his connections with plenty of time to spare."
That was good news. Although we wouldn't have the leisure time to explore a bit of Damascus, the world's oldest continually inhabited city, I was glad that travel time back to our city would be at a minimum. We'd have a layover in Damascus of about thirty-five minutes. Then we'd catch another suborbital direct to the city. We'd be home. We'd be powerless to move around in complete freedom, but at least it would be home.
Friedlander Bey stared out of his port for a long while after takeoff, thinking about matters I could only guess at. Finally, he said, "We must decide where we're going when the ship from Damascus to the city touches down."
"Why don't we just go to the house?" I asked.
He regarded me with a blank expression for a few seconds. "Because we're still criminals in the eyes of the law. We're fugitives from what passes for 'justice' there."
I'd forgotten all about that. "They don't know the meaning of the word."
Papa waved impatiently. "In the city, as soon as we showed our faces, your Lieutenant Hajjar would arrest us and put us on trial for that unexplained murder."
"Does everyone in the city speak that mutilated Arabic gibberish?" asked bin Turki. "I can't even make out what you're saying!"
"I'm afraid so," I told him. "But you'll get the hang of the local dialect quickly." I turned back to Papa. His sobering insight had made me realize that our troubles were far from over. "What do you suggest, O my uncle?" I asked.
"We must think of someone trustworthy, who'd be willing to house us for a week or so."
I couldn't follow his idea. "A week? What will happen in a week?"
Friedlander Bey turned the full power of his terrifying cold smile on me. "By then," he said, "we'll have arranged for an interview with Shaykh Mahali. We'll make him see that we've been cheated of our final legal recourse, that we're entitled to an appeal, and that we strongly urge the amir to protect our rights because in doing so he'll uncover official corruption under his very nose."
I shuddered, and then I thanked Allah that I wasn't going to be the target of the investigation—at least, not long enough to get nervous about. I wondered how well Lieutenant Hajjar slept, and Dr. Abd ar-Razzaq. I wondered if they foresaw events closing in on them. I got a delicious thrill while I imagined their imminent doom.
I must've drifted off to sleep because I was awakened some time later by one of the ship's stewards, who wanted bin Turki and me to make sure that our seat belts were securely fastened prior to landing. Bin Turki studied his and figured out how to work the catch. I cooperated because it seemed to please the steward so much. Now he wouldn't have to worry about my various separated limbs flying toward the cockpit, in case the pilot planted the aircraft up to its shoulders in the sand dunes beyond the city's gates.
"I think it's an excellent opportunity, O Shaykh," I said.
"What do you mean?" said Papa.
"We're supposed to be dead already," I explained. "We've got an advantage then. It might be some time before Hajjar, Shaykh Reda, and Dr. Abd ar-Razzaq realize that their two abandoned corpses are poking around in matters they don't want brought to light. Maybe we should proceed slowly, to delay our eventual discovery as long as possible. If we go charging into the city with banners and bugles, all our sources will dry up immediately."
"Yes, very good, my nephew," said Friedlander Bey. "You are learning the wisdom of reason. Combat rarely ever succeeds without logic to guide the attack."
"Still, I also learned from the Bani Salim the dangers of hesitancy."
"The Bani Salim would not sit in the dark and hatch plans," said bin Turki. "The Bani Salim would ride down upon their enemies and let their rifles speak. Then they'd let their camels trample the bodies in the dust."
"Well," I said, "we don't have any camels to trample with. Still, I like the Bani Salim's approach to the problem."
"You have indeed been changed by our experiences in the desert," said Papa. "Yet we won't be hesitating. We'll go forward slowly but firmly, and if it becomes necessary to dispatch one of the key players, we must be ready to commit that deed without regret."
"Unless, of course, the player is Shaykh Reda Abu Adil," I said.
"Yes, of course."
"I wish I knew the whole story. Why is Shaykh Reda spared when better men—I'm thinking of his pet imam—may be sacrificed to our honor?"
A long sigh came from Papa. "There was a woman," he said, turning his head and gazing out the port again.
"Say no more," I said. "I don't need to hear the details. A woman, well, that alone explains so much."
"A woman and an oath. It appears that Shaykh Reda has forgotten the oath we took, but I have not. After I am dead, you will be released from that oath, but not before."
I let my breath out heavily. "Must've been some woman," I said. This was the most he'd ever discussed the mysterious ground rules of his lifelong conflict with his rival, Abu Adil.
Friedlander Bey did not deign to respond to that. He just stared out at the blackness of the sky and the darkness of the planet we were hurrying to meet.
An announcement came over the PA system instructing us to remain seated until the suborbital came to a complete stop and then underwent the quarter-hour cooling-down procedure. It was frustrating in a way, because I'd always wanted to visit Damascus, and we'd be there but I wouldn't get a chance to see anything but the terminal building.
The Imam Muhammad al-Baqir slipped into its landing configuration, and in a few more minutes we'd be on the ground. I shuddered a little in relief. I always do. It's not that I'm afraid of being shot into the sky in a rocket; it's just that when I'm aboard, suddenly I lose all my faith in modern physics and suborbital-craft design. I always fall back on a frightened child's thought, that they'll never be able to get so many tons of steel into the air, and even if they do, they'll never be able to keep it there. Actually, the time I'm most worried is during takeoff. If the ship doesn't explode in glittering smithereens, I figure we've got it licked and I relax. But for a few minutes, I keep waiting to hear the pilot say something like "Ground Control has decided to abort this flight once we're far enough downrange. It's been a real pleas—"
We came to a nice, smooth landing in Damascus, and then stared out the ports for fifteen minutes while the suborbital shrunk back to its IAA-approved tolerances. Papa and I had only three small bags between us, and we carried them across the tarmac to the terminal. It didn't take us long to figure out where we had to go to catch the suborbital that would take us home.
I went to the small souvenir shop, thinking to buy something for myself and maybe something for Indihar and something for Chiri. I was disappointed to discover that nearly all the souvenirs had "Made in the Western Reserve" or "Made in Occupied Panama" stickers on them. I contented myself with a few holocards.
I began writing one out to Indihar, but I stopped. No doubt the phones in Papa's palace were now tapped, and the mail was probably scrutinized by unfriendly eyes as well. I could blow our cover by sending a holocard announcing our triumphant return.
No doubt weeks ago Indihar and all my friends had reconciled themselves to my tragic demise. What would we find when we got back to the city? I guessed I'd learn a lot about how people felt toward me. Youssef and Tariq were probably maintaining Friedlander Bey's estate, but
Kmuzu must have seen his liberation in my death, and would be long gone.
I felt a thrill as I climbed aboard the second suborbital. Knowing that the Nasrullah would ferry us back to the city made me tingle with anticipation. In under an hour, we'd be back. The uneasy alliances and conspiracies that had tried to kill us would be shaken, perhaps shaken to death, as soon as we got down to work. I looked forward eagerly to our vengeance. The Bani Salim had taught me that.
It turned out to be the shortest long flight I'd ever taken. My nose was pressed right up against the port, as if by concentrating with all my might, I could help steer the Nasrullah and give it a little extra acceleration. It seemed that we'd just passed through Max Q when the steward came by to tell us to buckle up for landing. I wondered if, say, we should plummet back to Earth and plow a crater a hundred feet deep, would the seat belt provide enough protection so that we could walk away unharmed, through the fireball?
The three of us didn't spend much time in the terminal, because Friedlander Bey was too well known to go long without being recognized, and then the word would get back to Abu Adil, and then . . . Sand Dune City again. Or maybe one shot through four cerebral lobes.
"What now, O Shaykh?" I asked Papa.
"Let us walk a bit," he said. I followed him out of the terminal, to a cab stand. Bin Turki, anxious to make himself useful, carried the bags.
Papa was about to get into the first cab in line, but I stopped him. "These drivers have pretty good memories," I said. "And they're probably bribable. There's a driver I use who's perfectly suited to our needs."
"Ah," said the old man, "You have something on him? Something that he doesn't want to come to light?"
"Better than that, O Shaykh. He is physically unable to remember anything from one hour to the next."
"I don't understand. Does he suffer from some sort of brain injury?"
"You could say that, my uncle." Then I told him all about Bill, the crazy American. Bill had come to the city long before I did. He had no use for cosmetic bodmods—appearances meant nothing to Bill. Or for skull-wiring, either. Instead, he'd done a truly insane thing: he'd paid one of the medical hustlers on the Street to remove one of Bill's lungs and replace it with a sac that dripped a constant, measured dose of light-speed RPM into his bloodstream.
RPM is to any other hallucinogen as a spoonful of crushed saccharin is to a single granule of sugar. I deeply regret the few times I ever tried it. Its technical name is l-ribopropylmethionine, but nowadays I hear people on the street calling it "hell." The first time I took it, my reaction was so fiercely horrible that I had to take it again because I couldn't believe anything could be that bad. It was an insult to my self-image as the Conqueror of All Substances.
There isn't enough money in the world to get me to try it again.
And this was the stuff Bill had dripping into his arteries day and night, day and night. Needless to say, Bill's completely and permanently fried. He doesn't look so much like a cab driver as he does a possessed astrologer who'll probably seduce the entire royal family and end up being assassinated in an icy river at midnight.
Riding with Bill was a lunatic's job, too, because he was always swerving to avoid things in the road only he could see. And he was positive that demons—the afrit—sat beside him in the front, distracting him and tempting him and being just enough of a nuisance that it took all his concentration to keep from dying in a fiery crash on the highway. I always found Bill and his muttered commentaries fascinating. He was an anti-role model for me. I told myself, "You could end up like him if you don't stop swallowing pills all the time."
"And yet you recommend this driver?" said Friedlander Bey dubiously.
"Yes," I said, "because Bill's total concentration could pass through the eye of a needle and leave enough room for a five-tier flea pyramid to slide by above. He has no mind. He won't remember us the next day. He may not even remember us as soon as we get out of the cab. Sometimes he zooms off before you can even pay him."
Papa stroked his white beard, which was desperately in need of trimming. "I see. So he truly wouldn't be bribable, not because he's so honest, but because he won't remember."
I nodded. I was already looking for a public phone. I went to one, dropped in a few coins, and spoke Bill's commcode into the receiver. It took fifteen rings, but at last Bill answered. He was sitting at his customary place, just beyond the Budayeen's eastern gate, on the Boulevard il-Jameel. It took a couple of minutes for Bill to recall who I was, despite the fact that we'd known each other for years. He said he'd come to the airfield to pick us up.
"Now," said Friedlander Bey, "we must decide carefully on our destination."
I chewed a fingernail while I thought. "No doubt Chiri's is being watched."
Chiri's was a nightclub on the Street. Papa had forced Chiriga to sell it to him, and then he'd presented it to me. Chiri had been one of my best friends, but after the buyout she could barely bring herself to speak to me. I had persuaded her that it had been all Papa's idea, and then I'd sold her a half-interest in the club. We were pals again.
"We dare not contact any of your usual friends," he said. "Perhaps I have the answer." He went to the phone and spoke quietly for a short while. When he hung up, he gave me a brief smile and said, "I think I have the solution. Ferrari has a couple of spare rooms above his nightclub, and I've let him know that I need help tonight. I also reminded him of a few favors I've done for him over the years."
"Ferrari?" I said. "The Blue Parrot? I never go in there. The place is too classy for me." The Blue Parrot was one of those high-toned, formal attire, champagne-serving, little Latin band clubs. Signor Ferrari glided among the tables, murmuring pleasantries while the ceiling fans turned lazily overhead. Not a single undraped bosom to be seen. The place gave me the creeps.
"Just that much better. We'll have your driver friend take us around to the back of Ferrari's place. The door will be unlocked. We're to make ourselves comfortable in the rooms upstairs, and our host will join us when he closes his nightclub at 2 A.M., inshallah. As for young bin Turki, I think it would be better and safer if we sent him ahead to our house. Write out a brief note on one of your holocards and sign it without using your name. That will be enough for Youssef and Tariq."
I understood what he wanted. I scribbled a quick message on the back of one of the Damascene holocards—"Youssef and Tariq: This is our friend bin Turki. Treat him well until we return. See you soon, [signed] The Maghrebi." I gave the card to bin Turki.
"Thank you, O Shaykh," he said. He was still quivering with excitement. "You've already done more than I can ever repay."
I shrugged. "Don't worry about repaying anything, my friend," I said. "We'll find a way to put you to work." Then I turned to Friedlander Bey. "I'll trust your judgment concerning Ferrari, O Shaykh, because I personally don't know how honest he is."
That brought another smile to Papa's lips. "Honest? I don't trust honest men. There's always the first time for betrayal, as you have learned. Rather, Signor Ferrari is fearful, and that is something I can depend on. As for his honesty, he's no more honest than anyone else in the Budayeen."
That wasn't very honest. Papa had a point, though. I thought about how I'd pass the time in Ferrari's rooms, and my own agenda began to take shape. Before I could discuss it with Friedlander Bey, however, Bill arrived.
Bill glared out of his cab with insane eyes that almost seemed to sizzle. "Yeah?" he said.
Papa murmured, "In the name of Allah, the Beneficent, the Merciful."
"In the name of Christy Mathewson, the dead, the buried," growled Bill in return.
I looked at Papa. "Who is Christy Mathewson?" I asked.
Friedlander Bey just gave me a slight shrug. I was curious, but I knew it was wrong to start a conversational thread with Bill. He would either blow up in a rage and leave, or he'd start talking unstoppably and we'd never get to the Blue Parrot before dawn.
"Yeah?" said Bill in a threatening voice.
"Let's get in the cab," said Friedlander Bey calmly. We climbed in. "The Blue Parrot in the Budayeen. Go to the rear entrance."
"Yeah?" said Bill. "The Street's not open to vehicular traffic, which is what we are, or soon will be, as soon as I start moving. Actually, we'll all start moving, because we're—"
"Don't worry about the city ordinance," said Papa. "I'm giving you permission."
"Yeah? Even though we're transporting fire demons?"
"Don't worry about that, either," I said. "We have a Special Pass." I just made that part up.
"Yeah?" snarled Bill.
"Bismillah," prayed Papa.
Bill tromped the accelerator and we shot out of the airport lot, zooming and rocketing and careening around corners. Bill always sped up when he came to a turn, as if he couldn't wait to see what was around the corner. Someday it's going to be a big delivery wagon. Blammo.
"Yaa Allah!" cried bin Turki, terrified. "Yaa Allah!" His cries died away to a constant fearful moan through the duration of the journey.
Actually, our ride was fairly uneventful—at least for me. I was used to Bill's driving. Papa pushed himself deep into the seat, closed his eyes, and repeated "bismallah, btsmillah" the whole time. And Bill kept up a nonsensical monologue about how baseball players complained about scuffed balls, you should have to hit against an afrit once, see how hard that is, trying to connect with a ball of fire, even if you do, it won't go out of the infield, just break up in a shower of red and yellow sparks, try that sometime, maybe people would understand . . . and so forth.
We turned off the beautiful Boulevard il-Jameel and passed through the Budayeen's eastern gate. Even Bill realized that the pedestrian traffic on the Street was too dense for his customary recklessness, and so we made our way slowly to the Blue Parrot, then drove around the block to the rear entrance. When Papa and I got out of the cab, Friedlander Bey paid the fare and gave Bill a moderate tip.
The Exile Kiss Page 14
