The Djinn Falls in Love and Other Stories

by Mahvesh Murad

  “A weapon?”

  “His jugular vein was slashed with a piece of glass, but they put a hologram through him for good measure.”

  “What?”

  “Unnecessary, so I assume it was a message of some kind.”

  “A message to whom?”

  Dhaka shrugged. “That’s what we don’t know. It’s being reconstructed now.”

  “The weapon?”

  “It’s highly specialised. High-tensile crystal matrix bullet fired by a 3D projector.”

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, but aren’t such things still experimental?” Dhaka nodded.

  “Possibly.”

  “I want you to take charge of this investigation.”

  “You want someone else. This is a matter of Umma security.” Dhakka nodded towards Munzari. “It should fall to ISD.”

  “I am aware of the protocol,” purred Asgari.

  Dhaka didn’t like the sound of this. Crossing lines of protocol was a sure means of finding yourself on the list for a Friday beheading.

  “I need someone I can trust.” Asgari left the words hanging. “Your record speaks for itself. A decorated war hero. True, you’ve had disciplinary problems, but you’ve proven your loyalty.” The Colonel lowered his voice. “You report directly to me. Speak to no one else of your findings.”

  “And her?” Dhaka nodded towards Munzari.

  Asgari glanced over at the ISD officer. “She will accompany you, for official purposes, but she remains subordinate to you.”

  THE SHUTTLE WAS already warming up when Dhaka and Munzari arrived at Hijazi Station. The old curved railway lines could still be glimpsed beneath the launch ramp.

  “This must be like going home for you,” said Munzari as they strapped themselves in.

  “It’s almost twenty years since I left,” replied Dhaka. “I imagine things have changed.” He was aware that K.S. Munzari had never left Eastminster, which made her a strange choice for Colonel Asgari. Or maybe not.

  Whatever she said in reply was drowned out as the automatons ran through their useless emergency procedures. The engines were already starting up; the launch platform rose until the shuttle was tilting towards the sky. Then the engines kicked in and they were thrust back into their seats. Defense flares dropped slowly in their wake, like flowers opening up their petals to the sun.

  The flight to Hurriyet Station took less than half an hour. Almost as soon as he closed his eyes, Dhaka felt the floor tip as they tilted forwards and began to plunge back towards the Earth, the cabin heating up as they skimmed the atmosphere at re-entry. As they rattled towards the ground, it felt as if the entire airship was in terminal decay.

  Hurriyet Station was one of the most outlandish corners of the planet. Once a glittering symbol of oil opulence, an oasis of obscene luxury where the super-rich swanned around in an artificial paradise of desert islands, indoor ski slopes and everything in between, it had since become a cesspool of human detritus, a bubbling cauldron of discontent. The Endless Jihad which followed the war had left it in ruins. The skyscrapers, the shopping malls, the marinas: all had been crushed, leaving a radioactive wasteland inhabited by the scarred and the diseased. Every vice known to man flourished here, including rebellion. It was in a state of perpetual emergency, patrolled by paramilitary forces night and day.

  DHAKA MANAGED TO persuade Munzari to remain inside the security compound at the hostel where they had secured rooms. It was basic, but at least it was relatively clean. You could sleep in there and know you weren’t going to be murdered in your bed.

  The Sea of Pleasure was buried in the old salt caverns on the outskirts of town. Once, men had hauled buckets of saline water up to the surface to dry in the sun. It seemed ironic. Nowadays, fresh water was more valuable than the oil that once flowed here. The club was full of freaks, but the wealthy kind, the ones who could afford expensive treatments and cosmetic surgery to hide the ravages of radiation sickness. They thrived on the iodine tablets that sold like cocaine once had.

  It had taken three hours of wandering through smoky rooms, breathing the heady mix of narcotics and rotting flesh before he found her. Dar Firket was not an easy woman to see, but Dhaka had an advantage, one that he was in no doubt Colonel Asgari had been aware of when he picked him for this assignment: a history. A leper beckoned with the remaining two fingers on his left hand and Dhaka was led into an inner chamber. The air was infused with the harsh smell of sulphur.

  “How have you been?” she asked. He could only glimpse her silhouette through a translucent curtain. Opium smoke wafted up to the ceiling in a lilac haze, and Dhaka felt his nostrils twitch. Old habits, like a forgotten nerve, resurfacing from somewhere deep inside.

  “I never thought I’d see you again,” she said.

  A part of him wished she would pull back the screen; another was terrified she would.

  “I wasn’t sure I would be able to find you.”

  “And yet here you are...” There was a longing in that husky voice which made his heart tense.

  “Unless I’m mistaken, you knew I would be coming.”

  She laughed at that. “Poor old Dhaka, always too perceptive for his own good.” Her voice sounded low and breathless, and he tried to work out just how sick she was.

  “Times change. People don’t. You know why I’m here.”

  “Of course,” she laughed lightly.

  “The hologram was a message for me.”

  “I thought you’d like that.”

  “But why? Why now? Why me?”

  “You know the answer to that, better than anyone. Time is running out.”

  The smoke changed colour and she vanished in a saffron haze, leaving the faint scent of burnt almonds in the air. A scent he had always associated with her: the same he had detected in the apartment of Sanjak Sanbura in Eastminster.

  MUNZARI WAS WAITING for him inside the compound. “Did you find anything?”

  When he looked at her, all he saw was questions. “Tell me again why you’re here?”

  “My task is to open doors for you,” she said. The words sounded rehearsed.

  “As long as you remember that, we won’t have a problem.”

  Dhaka went up onto the roof terrace to survey the city. Winking eyes in the sky warned him that surveillance was continuous, all-pervasive. The Caliphate knew everything. Sirens sounded constantly. Armoured Hyenes buzzed through the smoke in a haze of red and blue lights, heading to one trouble spot or another. In the old days, he’d been one of those paramilitary officers, rappeling down to clear out radicals’ cells, bands of kuffar terrorists, each one more dangerous than the last.

  Now it was hard to believe there was anything here but despair. The war had never really ended. The Endless Jihad had turned inwards, and the Caliphate had been consuming itself ever since. The pathetic inhabitants shuffled around dressed in rags, barefoot, pushing their meagre belongings in handcarts, shopping trolleys, on the backs of bicycles. His memories were blurred, tinged with the narcotic excesses of those times. Drugs were the only way to deal with the madness. Most of those he knew were dead by now, but the disease was the same. The craving, the hunger; the moth, drawn towards the flame that it knows spells its annihilation. He had not wanted to come back here, but he had had no choice.

  His armband buzzed and Kara Murat’s face appeared before him. He was eating, in his usual sloppy way. It still disgusted Dhaka no matter how many years went by.

  “Where are you?”

  “You have something for me?” Dhaka ignored the question. Kara Murat grunted, wiped something from his mouth with the back of his hand and spoke, but was obliterated by a break in the connection.

  “What?”

  “The hologram. They managed to reconstruct it.” Dhaka stroked the wristpad and the image floated before him. A human skull studded with rubies, emeralds and precious stones set inside what looked like a maze.

  “Any idea what it is?”

  Kara Murat sighed. “You know how it is
with historical stuff. Our technical guys are hopeless.”

  Anything before the Great Victory was taboo. The past was a dangerous area that had been banned from educational courses for decades. Anyone caught dabbling risked being denounced as an unbeliever, or a worshipper of idols.

  “So, they don’t have a clue?” Dhaka asked.

  “The best they can come up with is Al Andalus, Moorish Spain. It seems there is some connection to a messiah they called the Duende, which means ‘spirit’, something like a jinn.”

  “That’s the best they can do?”

  “I’m afraid so.” Kara Murat sniffed. “I sent you a file. Where are you again?”

  “Never mind where I am. How are you doing with the iridium?”

  “Oh, lucky you reminded me. They traced the source to a location just northwest of Hurriyet.” Kara grunted. “You might have known it would come from some shithole like that. I wonder who they’ll send out there.”

  “Some poor sucker, I imagine,” said Dhaka. “Look, do me a favour, keep this to yourself for the moment.”

  “Can’t do that,” Kara Murat sniffed. “They’ll be on to me in no time.”

  “There’s a chance we have a security leak, we need to keep this under wraps. Blame me. You can say you’re waiting for confirmation.”

  “Twenty-four hours, no more,” Kara grunted. Dhaka broke the connection. He studied the image again and then headed downstairs for something to eat. Munzari was waiting for him. Dhaka wondered if she had access to all traffic to and from his coder. She fell in alongside him as he walked.

  “Did you eat?” Dhaka stared through the doorway at the canteen.

  “Yeah, it’s not bad, but stay away from anything with meat in it.”

  Dhaka chose a plate of vegetable tagine. He pressed the panel and watched the infrared beam play over it until it was steaming hot. His time was limited. He was beginning to understand Munzari’s role in this setup. Why he was here. Why Colonel Asgari had picked him.

  Munzari trailed behind him to a bench in the corner. The window offered a view down into the central well of the barracks. They were five floors below the surface, and the air had a tinny, metallic smell.

  “Tell me a bit about yourself.”

  The question seemed to take her by surprise. “Me?”

  “Yes, you must have excelled in some way for Colonel Asgari to choose you for this mission.”

  “I simply dedicated myself to becoming a good militia officer.”

  “When did you join?”

  Munzari lifted her chin. “As a child I joined the suicide brigades.”

  The Angels of Death, as they were known. Dhaka’s blood ran cold at the memory of children running towards enemy lines and detonating explosive charges in their vests.

  “You’re too young to have been in the War.”

  “That is correct. I never had the chance to make the supreme sacrifice.”

  “Something you regret?” Dhaka pushed something around his plate, trying to work out what it was.

  “The supreme sacrifice is what we all dreamed of.”

  “Only you never got the chance.” Dhaka studied her face. She seemed to really believe what she was saying.

  “I was found to have a strong affinity for intelligence work. I was offered a chance to join the ISD.”

  Dhaka washed the food down with a slug of mint tea. “Why do you think they asked you to accompany me here?”

  “May I speak frankly?”

  “Certainly.”

  “There are gaps in your service record, and a history of insubordination. I believe they wanted someone who could keep you in line.”

  “Are you good at that, keeping people in line?”

  She frowned, as though she didn’t get it. “I’m going to try.”

  “The hologram. You know what it represents?”

  “Duende is Spanish for a supernatural spirit,” said Munzari. “It’s a corruption of the Arabic word jinn. In the time before the Caliphate there were those who worshipped such idols.”

  Dhaka pushed aside his plate. “There used to be a sect of radicals operating in this area. They were planning a revolt against the Caliphate.”

  “How long ago was this?”

  “About fifteen years. Sanjak Sanbura was heading an investigation into them.”

  “Is that why he was killed?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “What happened to them?”

  “The cell was broken up. Most of them died.” Dhaka watched her reaction. “A small number of them got away. They settled in a cave in the Zarbek mountains. They worship the gem-studded skull of a former leader, a messiah from another age, a mahdi they call the ‘Duende 2077.’ The figure in the hologram.”

  “None of this is in the file.”

  “No,” Dhaka shook his head. “It wouldn’t be.”

  “How is it that you know these things?”

  “Colonel Asgari chose me for a reason. When I was stationed here, I had some dealings with the cell.”

  “You infiltrated them.” Munzari’s raised her chin slowly. “The gaps in your record.”

  “I was undercover for almost three years.”

  “What happened?”

  “Undercover work is complicated.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “What does that mean?”

  “It means it was a long time ago,” Dhaka shrugged. “Their leader was never caught. Nobody’s heard of them for years.”

  “Until now.”

  “Until now.” Dhaka fell silent. He sat back and studied her for a moment. “How does it usually happen?”

  Munzari understood what he meant. “The Rapture, we call it. It used to be manual. The shahid would trigger the detonator themselves. Nowadays it’s remote controlled, like everything else.”

  “So, how does that work? You go through life never knowing when you’re going to explode?”

  “That is a simplistic understanding,” she smiled. “It means you live every moment as if it were your last in this world. It’s the most intense form of life there is.”

  Which is why so many people dreamed of nothing more than joining the suicide corps. At least now he had an idea how they were planning to get rid of him.

  “I need to go out there,” said Dhaka.

  “My orders are to stay with you at all times.”

  “It’s not going to be an easy trip.”

  “I’m tougher than you think,” she said.

  THEY LEFT THE city at dawn in an unmarked Hijazi 4 cruiser. They made good time and by noon they had reached the ghost town of Masdar. Munzari had been busy while Dhaka drove.

  “This messiah, the one they called the Duende 2077, did you ever meet him?”

  “Why do you ask?” Dhaka brought the cruiser down alongside an old service station. The desert wind blew through broken windows. A half-dome shed stood to one side, one panel of rusting corrugated iron flapping in the wind. “It’s just that the messiah disappeared around the same time you left the group.”

  “Coincidence.” Dhaka powered down and stared out through the windscreen.

  “Is it?” She looked out. “Why have we stopped here?”

  “We have a technical problem.”

  Munzari frowned. “The cruiser was fine when we signed it out.”

  Dhaka smiled. “I told you it was going to be tough.”

  She was still tapping the control panel when he stunned her. He figured it would take her a couple of hours to call for help; by then, he would be long gone. He slipped his communicator under the seat alongside her. Who knows, she might still get her wish of martyrdom, but he wouldn’t be around to witness it.

  The jet skiff was a vintage turn-of-the-century model, built out of a Bugatti Veyron chassis that still had the old police paintwork on the sides. It had lasted well in storage. He rolled it out of the shed and used the cruiser’s batteries to start her up.

  The warm air whistled mournfully over his head. If he listened carefully, he imagined he
heard voices speaking, drawing him in, speaking his true name. The desert flew by below. Already Masdar was a dark smudge in the rearview mirror. To the right, the silver shimmer of the sea beckoned, and within minutes he was skirting the line between sand and water. The sun was sinking towards the western horizon. Ahead of him, the Zarbek mountains rose from the flat ground like a ripple of bruises.

  It was written that the messiah would return from the east, and so he corrected his course. He had always known this day would come; he just hadn’t known when. Now that it was here, he felt a calmness settle over him.

  Now the real work could begin.

  The Righteous Guide of Arabsat

  Sophia Al-Maria

  FRIDAY AFTERNOONS, KHALID went to sit with his mother in the women’s parlour and watch Ulama TV. Even though there was an entire constellation of satellite channels since they had a dish installed, Ulama was always on. And in spite of the fact it was a program for women, Khalid found Sheikh Safar’s Right Guidance series deeply compelling. It wasn’t the histrionics or the drama he enjoyed, it was the Sheikh’s judgement. Sheikh Safar was the channel’s premiere agony aunt, and the lines were ever lit with distraught housewives seeking righteous guidance in matters personal. Every day they called to air their woes to a silent jury of viewers. And on the daily, the confessions became ever more shocking and the questions more embarrassing.

  Today, a young caller was phoning in asking why she wasn’t pregnant after two years of marriage. She coyly described her marital relations before the Sheikh shook his head, interrupting her, “Dear sister, I fear you are engaging in anal congress.”

  He stated this with the frank confidence of a family doctor diagnosing chicken pox.

  “What?” The caller sounded a little shaken. The sheikh held the camera’s gaze. “You and your husband have not been practicing the correct manner of sexual union.”

  “Stakhfarallah!” Mother exclaimed. “That poor girl.”

  But Khalid could see glee glimmering behind the pity as she leaned in towards the new flatscreen Samsung, ears pricked for the sound of sobbing.