He shook his head and trudged into the passage she’d pointed out. Who was he fooling? He could never escape who he was. Wherever he fled his uncle would come looking for him. Omar was more than his nephew now – he was his heir.
The ladder was just where Latifa had said it would be. He hated heights and felt dizzy as he climbed. At last he reached the manhole and pushed up the cover. He looked out. As Latifa had said, he was in the gold-market district. He had come up just under a dealer’s cart, now shut up and locked for the night. Quietly, he levered himself out, closed the manhole cover, and came out from under the cart to look around. All was quiet and dark on the street, but he’d have to be careful. It was still curfew. And if the ambush had been reported, the streets would be crawling with soldiers looking for the attackers.
Just then, there came a rumble a little distance away and a tank lumbered into view. Omar dived back down under the cart, his heart beating fast. Tanks hadn’t been seen on city streets for a long while: there were no rebels left to kill, no demonstrators brave enough to poke a nose out of doors, no hope or courage left in the people of Mesomia at all, and therefore no need to bring out tanks. It must mean, then, that the ambush had already been discovered and The Vampire was on high alert. Omar thought of what might happen – not to himself but to the citizens of Mesomia – now that the Secretary had been assassinated. The Vampire’s revenge would be terrible indeed.
He broke into a cold sweat. He had to tell his uncle who was responsible, before he started slaughtering just anybody. There was no doubt that many innocent and helpless people would pay for it if the Shadow Walkers were not found.
He looked out again. There was no-one to be seen and the tank had rumbled off into the distance. He slid out and, dodging between stall and cart, cart and stall, made his way to the furthest edge of the gold market.
Beyond was a large, empty square bounded on all sides by vast walls covered in frescoes depicting his uncle in all kinds of poses: as the legendary husband of the Queen of the Jinns; as an armour-clad hero of olden times, mounted on a white horse; as a benevolent father, extending blessings over all; as a dashing young soldier wearing a red beret; as a university professor in mortarboard and gown; and as the Master of Magicians, in a star-studded turban, holding a vast crystal ball. Omar had seen these before and took no notice of them. He was far too busy with other things. He had to cross the square to reach the huge fortified gates of his uncle’s palace. The square was brightly lit, with glaring spotlights trained on each fresco. How would he get across without some trigger-happy guard shooting him before he was able to tell them who he was?
Omar stood at the edge of the square, in the shadows, and tried to work it out. What would his new friend Latifa do? Maybe get down on her belly and crawl along, below the arc of the lights? Or make a dash across and hope for the best? No, not the second. But maybe not the first either …
An Army jeep came dashing around the corner. Omar only just had time to crouch down. It stopped right near him, in a screech of tyres, but obviously the soldiers hadn’t seen him because nobody hauled him out of the shadows. He heard a soldier’s voice cursing at his walkie-talkie, accusing it of being a worthless piece of junk, then another saying, ‘We’d better go back in, then, or …’
Omar didn’t wait to hear more. He had caught a glimpse of the soldiers as they came around the corner and they looked like the special palace militia. He crawled under the jeep and clung on to the chassis. The jeep lurched forward and drove across the square. Swallowing mouthfuls of dust, limbs aching from the effort of holding on, he was bumped along with it. They crossed the square without incident, then stopped. Omar heard the sound of the palace compound gates slowly swinging open, then the jeep bumped through. It stopped again and he heard the soldiers walk away. He waited a while, then dropped down onto the concrete below him. Holding his breath, he waited again, then crawled out from under the jeep. Dusting himself down as best he could, he raised his head slowly. He was in the yard of the militia barracks, which were part of the palace compound. The jeep was parked next to a row of other militia vehicles.
And now for the next obstacle. He put a hand to his shirt pocket to check that his identity card was still there. He crept around the side of the jeep and then the next jeep, and so on, until he reached the end of the line. There was no-one in any of them, fortunately, but just as he came around the side of the last jeep, he saw a young militiaman standing with his back to him. Omar gulped, then walked up to the man and said, as firmly as he could, ‘Soldier, I am Omar, nephew and heir of our Great Leader.’
The soldier was very young. His look of fright was unmistakable, but he recovered very quickly. ‘Omar!’ He stared at the boy, taking in his dusty clothes and dirty face. ‘We were told you were dead.’
‘As you see, I’m not,’ said Omar, with a boldness he could not understand. He pulled out his identity card. ‘See that I am who I say I am.’
‘I know you are,’ said the militiaman. ‘We’ve been given a description.’ He was still staring at Omar, though, and the boy began to feel very uncomfortable indeed. ‘Radio in and tell them I’m here,’ he said, with rather less authority than before.
‘Yes,’ said the soldier, ‘but how is it that the Secretary –’ He broke off abruptly as another militiaman, more senior by the look of him, approached them. ‘Sir,’ said the first man, ‘this is the Leader’s nephew, Omar. I found him, sir.’
‘You did, did you?’ said the second man, who had a cold, cruel face. He, too, stared at Omar. ‘They were sure you were dead. Well, then, come with me.’ He looked him up and down. ‘Best freshen up first, I think.’ He waved Omar to a little bathroom and waited till he was ready.
Four
The militiaman did not speak one word to Omar as they hurried through the compound. Omar was glad. He was rehearsing in his mind just what he’d say to his uncle.
Now they were in the palace proper. Here, everything was quiet. Servants glided in noiseless soft shoes, not even looking at Omar and his military escort. The walls of the interminable marble corridors were hung with innumerable photographs of The Vampire, in his various costumes, welcoming the few world leaders who were still willing to set foot in Mesomia, and patting the heads of the unlucky children who’d been chosen for photo opportunities. There were some also of the dictator in his early days, in military uniform, standing by the fighter jet he used to fly; and there were a few family shots, of the dictator with his late wife, baby Sayid on her knees, and then of a grownup Sayid, sulky-faced, handsome, thin-lipped. Omar had hardly known his cousin, who was nearly ten years older than he was. But what he had known of him had not made him want to get closer. It was rumoured that Sayid would prove to be an even more ruthless and cruel leader than his father, if that were possible. But Sayid was dead now, and it was Omar who –
He stopped. He’d spotted another familiar face in the rows of photographs: his father, Ali. There he was, tall, handsome, dignified in his judge’s robes, standing beside his younger brother, Haroun, who was not yet the tyrant of Mesomia but a captain in the army of the old king. A lump grew in Omar’s throat as he looked at the picture. How things had changed!
The militiaman had stopped too. He saw what Omar was looking at. A faint smile curved his lips. But all he said was, ‘The Leader will be eager to see you, sir.’ He laid a slight stress on the last word which made Omar understand quite clearly that the title meant nothing to him at all. Omar wanted to outstare him, to stand his ground, but he couldn’t. He flushed a little. The man continued down the corridor and Omar hurried after him.
At last, they reached a vast antechamber. It was decorated in red and gold, and glittered with dozens of large crystal chandeliers. Enormous paintings lined the walls, all done in loud oils, of the tyrant’s great victories at home and abroad – putting down rebellions, building factories, defeating foreign armies sent against Mesomia. They made Omar’s head ache.
The militiaman said, pointing to a row of stiff carved c
hairs parked along one wall, ‘Please take a seat, sir. I will go in and announce you.’
Omar did as he was told. Seated on one of the uncomfortable chairs, he looked at his hands and thought about the photograph of the two brothers – his father and The Vampire – in happier days. Maybe I’m being unjust to him. Maybe I’ve listened to rumour too much. I am the son of his beloved older brother. I have nothing to be afraid of, he thought.
The militiaman came back. ‘Follow me,’ he barked, holding open the door at the end of the antechamber. Omar did so, and they came into a much smaller room, a kind of office, decorated in the same gaudy red and gold. There were no paintings of victories in this room – it was decorated instead with a series of octagonal blue plates, hung in the four corners of the room.
Everyone in Mesomia hung such plates in their houses as talismans against the depredations of dangerous Jinns, especially the evil ones called afreets. Some of the plates had lines from the Book of Light inscribed on them, the sacred words known as adhubilah, which gave protection against afreets and other evil Jinns. The words were often written up above doorways. Obviously, the tyrant was not without his own fears of the forces of darkness. Somehow, the knowledge of that, and the homeliness of the blue plates, made Omar feel slightly braver.
There was a desk in the room, unattended when they came in. But just seconds afterwards a man entered the room from the far end – a grey man in a grey suit, with an impassive face. He came towards them, eyebrows raised. The militiaman spoke briefly to him; the grey man’s expression changed to one of faint surprise. He said a few more low words to the militiaman, then dismissed him.
Turning to Omar, he said, in a light, toneless voice, ‘Nephew of the Leader, we give praise for your deliverance. The Leader will want to see you at once.’ He motioned Omar towards the door. ‘Come with me.’
Omar followed him into a guard-room. The grey man went straight to a door at the far end – a door that looked like the entrance to a massive safe. He placed his palm on a touchpad beside the door and green lights came on. Then he touched a keypad in the centre of the door and entered a long sequence of numbers, his fingers moving like lightning. There were a number of electronic beeps and clicks, then a voice said, ‘There are two of you. Who is the other?’
‘Nephew of our Great Leader, sir. Omar bin Ali. Safe.’
‘Safe?’ said the voice, ‘But we thought –’
Omar felt the guards’ stares at his back.
He interrupted, uncertainly, ‘I was helped, I was rescued. Please let me see my uncle.’
There was no answer, but slowly the door swung open and the grey man stepped through, impatiently gesturing at Omar to follow. He did so, and the door closed behind him. They were in a kind of white, blank airlock, facing yet another door, as formidable as the one they’d just got through, with a much bigger keypad, and an in-built screen just beside it.
The voice boomed suddenly, startling Omar.
‘Come to the screen, Omar bin Ali, that we may see it is truly you.’ Omar went to the screen. ‘Spread the five fingers of your right hand out on the touchpad.’ Omar placed his hand on it and the screen sprang into humming life. Omar saw figures flash across it, and then what looked like some kind of document. With a start, he saw it was about himself, and was remarkably detailed and remarkably up to date, right up till the moment he had left his home.
The document scrolled down rapidly. There was a series of pictures: photographs of Omar from babyhood till now, plus two sets of slides of fingerprints. The document scrolled down again and several words flashed up: Approved. Authorised. Identified.
Omar stepped back. He felt a little sick. If he’d ever thought about it, he would have assumed that his uncle had a big file on him. Organisation was what The Vampire prided himself on; there would likely be a file on every man, woman and child in Mesomia. Earlier Mesomian rulers had never managed such a complete catalogue of the population. With his mixture of dark magic and modern technology, The Vampire had succeeded where earlier rulers had failed.
The door hissed open. Omar stepped through. Now he was in a long white corridor, bare except for two large photographs, in black and white, of the rebuilt ancient palace of Babniria, seat of the great emperors of thousands of years ago – emperors The Vampire constantly compared himself to. The rebuilding of the ruins of Babniria had been a pet project of The Vampire’s right from the beginning; and he’d had himself inaugurated as President for Life there, in the ancient throne room, now restored almost to its former glory.
Omar hurried after the grey-faced man. There at the end of the corridor was a big steel door. Guards stood on either side of it – men dressed all in black, in the robes and headdresses of the desert, but holding massive machine guns. The grey-faced man said something to them; they looked at Omar and nodded. One of the guards banged three times on the door with a big, meaty fist; the sound echoed down the corridor. Omar could feel his mouth going dry and his knees knocking, but he stayed as straight and tall as he could. Slowly, the door creaked open – and he stepped through into the inner sanctum of The Vampire’s palace.
Another antechamber, plain this time; another grey-faced man at a desk. But there seemed no way out of this place, no door beyond at all. The first grey-faced man spoke to the second, who picked up a telephone on the desk and spoke into it. The telephone quacked back. The second man put it down and gestured at Omar.
‘He will see you now.’
He pressed a button on the desk and what had looked like a wall suddenly revealed itself to be a door that slid noiselessly sideways, leaving a yawning dark space beyond. The second man pointed. ‘Go.’ Omar must have looked hesitant, for he went on, ‘We do not follow.’
Omar could feel their stares as he walked into the dark space. In an instant he could see nothing at all, as the sliding door closed behind him. The darkness was so complete it was as if he were in a cave.
Then he saw a faint light. It became brighter. And brighter. Soon it was a stream of bright white light, shining straight at him, blinding him. He put up his hands to shield his face.
A voice said, softly, ‘Omar bin Ali. Well, well.’
Omar’s heart seemed to leap into his throat. It was the Secretary’s voice!
Five
‘Sir, I – thought you were …’ Omar still couldn’t see anything except the bright light, and the darkness around it.
‘Dead?’ said the Secretary’s voice, sounding amused. ‘Well, and so I thought you were, too.’ Smoothly, he went on, ‘But as you see, I am safe, like you. And our Master and Leader awaits. Come, Nephew of the Great Light of Mesomia.’
The light flicked away from Omar, and into the darkness, making a kind of path. Omar followed. Now his eyes were becoming accustomed to the darkness he could make out the Secretary’s elegant silk-clad back, the mannered poise of his well-oiled head, the flash of his smart white shoes as he glided along. He looked none the worse for wear. Omar had a sudden picture of the last moments in the car, and his confused sighting of what he’d thought was a snake slithering out the door. A cold finger gripped at his spine. Oh why, oh why couldn’t the Secretary have died, like the bodyguards.
The Secretary stopped. He switched off his flashlight. Instantly, profound darkness fell again. Omar stopped dead.
The Secretary said, ‘My lord, he is here.’ Omar felt the man beside him, his sweet breath somehow disgusting. The Secretary propelled him forward. ‘Speak.’
‘Uncle,’ said Omar, more dead than alive, his eyes desperately trying to pierce the thick dark, ‘I am here.’
‘Is that all you have to say?’ His uncle’s voice was strange, yet familiar. He remembered its harsh tones from years before, the thick up-country accent his uncle had never lost; and yet there was something odd about it, something inhuman, almost metallic.
‘Sir, Uncle, respected Uncle, I thank you for inviting me –’
‘You talk nonsense, Omar. I did not invite you. I ordered. Now come clos
er. I need to see you.’
Omar felt himself pushed forward, blind, into the darkness. All at once, he could smell his uncle; smell that mixture of eau de Cologne and fragrant tobacco that was so normal, so reassuring. His uncle’s voice said, very close now, ‘You look frightened, boy.’
Suddenly, right up close to Omar’s face, were two pinpoints of green light. He almost screamed. Only the fact that there was a cruel grip on his arm made him hold back the yell. The green lights searched Omar’s face. The boy, stricken with a terror he could find no name for, could not speak or even move a muscle. The Vampire said, ‘I want to know how you escaped the traitors’ ambush. I want to know everything.’
Omar was desperately trying to think. What was wrong with his uncle? Why was he in the darkness? Why did his voice sound so strange? What were those green lights – they surely could not be his eyes? Or were all the stories true? Had his uncle turned into an inhuman demon? He tried to whisper adhubilah to himself, but the words dried in his throat.
‘Speak,’ said The Vampire.
‘Sir,’ Omar managed to croak, ‘respected Uncle –’
‘The truth, now,’ said The Vampire. A soft yellow light clicked on and a dazzled Omar found himself staring for the first time at the figure of his uncle. He could not help but recoil in sheer terror.
The Vampire was a monster, with no recognisable human face! His nose had turned into a hideous grey snout; his mouth was a grey bar, his breathing coming laboured and metallic through it. And his eyes had turned into insect’s eyes – large, magnified, green. His body was clad entirely in camouflage uniform, such as was worn in the desert – pale fawns and yellows. His hands were gloved.
Frozen, Omar could only stare. Then he heard his uncle laugh and saw him reach up to the ‘snout’ and pull it off. He felt very small and stupid as The Vampire peeled off the gasmask, and then the green goggles. Now his face was fully revealed, and it was just a normal face, if a little ravaged – the face of a well-preserved, rather handsome man in late middle age, with the trademark thick black moustache, well-cut dyed black hair, and eyes of a shiny, impassive darkness so complete it was like looking into black marble.
The Tyrant's Nephew Page 2
