"Has he said anything?" he inquired.
One of the MPH men shook his head sullenly.
Delame-Noir announced in a collegial yet firm way that Dr. Rochet, the "eminent neurologist." had come from Paris and would now make her examination. So, if everyone would please excuse them?
"My orders are to remain." the MPH agent said.
Delame-Noir eyed him with Gallic froideur. "I will make my report directly to the emir. And to His Royal Highness King Tallulah in Kaffa. To whom do you report, sir?"
The room cleared efficiently.
Delame-Noir bent over and peered into Yassim's face. It bore the vacant but not displeased expression of one whose veins course with liquid lotus, bringing surcease from pain and blissful phantasmagorias of virgins on lush Technicolor riverbanks. Yassim was feeding on honeydew and drinking the milk of paradise—by the litre.
Delame-Noir nodded at his "eminent neurologist." one of the Onzieme Bureau's chemical specialists, code name "Fleurs du Mai." She took from her case a hypodermic and injected ten milligrams of naloxone into the intravenous tube going into Yassim's arm. His eyes sprang open like window shades.
"Ooooh."
"So, Yassim, you're alive?" Delame-Noir said. "God be praised. You had us worried, my friend."
"The pain—it is great. Excellency."
“Yes, yes, we will take away the pain in a moment, but first you must answer some questions. Okay?" "What is this place?"
"You're in excellent hands. Good French doctors. Now, Yassini, the camel Shein—what did he eat before the parade of Raliq?"
"The feed. Excellency."
"Feed? What do you mean? Grass? Hay?"
"The special feed, from the king. It was a gift from His Highness."
"Gift—a gift for a camel'?"
"from His Royal Highness King Tallulah. In honor of the Perfidy of Rafiq. For the parade. Excellency."
"Who brought this 'gift'?"
"A man. Excellency."
"Yes, yes, of course, a man, but who, Yassim? Surely you don't accept food for the emir's camel from just any person."
"The pain, Excellency."
"I will make the pain go away. Who was this man. Yassim?"
"A servant of King Tallulah. Excellency."
"How did you ascertain this? How did you know?"
"He said so."
"Yassim!"
"He was very important-looking. He presented a letter from the king to me, to me personally. A great honor." "Go on. Continue."
"The letter said that the feed was from his own royal stables, a symbol of the new friendship between the peoples of Wasabia and Matar."
"This letter, where is it?"
"In my room. Excellency."
Delame-Noir muttered imprecations under his breath. "There was another man. Excellency. Your man."
"How do you mean, my man?"
"He said he worked for you."
"I sent no man to you."
"But he had papers—and a letter from you. He was French. There are so many French persons in Amo these days, helping to build the New Matar. The pain. Excellency..."
Delame-Noir reached into his jacket pocket and look out a photograph. It was of Bobby Thibodeaux. He thrust it in front of Yassim. "Is this your Frenchman?"
"Yes, Excellency. That's the man."
A FEW HOURS LATER The New York Times posted a story on its website. The headline read:
EXPLOSIVE USED IN MATAR "CAMEL BOMB" APPEARS IDENTICAL TO TYPE USED IN SINKING OF VESSEL TIED TO FRENCH SECRET SERVICES
Investigators report traces of Exuperine in remains of royal camel, saddle and clothing of wounded emir
SPECIAL TO THE NEW YORK TIMES By Thomas Lowell
Within an hour the story was being beamed by satellites into a billion television sets. One of these was in Maliq's apartments at the palace, which had been converted into a hospital wing so that he could recuperate at home.
Few world leaders like to hear grim news first from the television set, but in our modern age. this is often the way of it. Even American presidents hear disastrous tidings in this fashion, rather than from their generals and spymasters. Maliq furiously pressed his buzzer and bellowed. Attendants, doctors, bodyguards and spiritual advisers rushed in.
FROM THE POINT OF VIEW of France, the timing could have been better. The president of the republic was in Quebec to give support to a referendum that would require all of Canada to adopt French as its sole official language. Eager to assert the supremacy of the language of Corneille and Racine and Moliere and—if you insist—Victor Hugo, the elegant Gaul instead found himself facing a phalanx of out-thrust microphones and a mob of clamorous reporters demanding to know if he had 'personally approved the assassination of the emir of Matar."
The president "categorically and profoundly" denied these "absurd" allegations: and while he was at it, he denied "for the one thousandth time, okay?" that France had played any role in the sinking of the environmental vessel Whitepeace. He tried to steer the agenda back to the glories of the French language and why it was imperative that cattle ranchers in Alberta fill out their income-tax forms in it, but the reporters preferred to stay on the subject of Fxuperine, a sophisticated high explosive manufactured only in France and—so far, at any rate—used only by the French military and secret services. The president was finally forced to take sanctuary inside the French consulate in Montreal, where, fuming, he growled to his aide, "Get Delame-Noir on the phone—now."
IN WASHINGTON, a group calling itself Friends of Free Matar and working out of the offices of Renard Strategic Communications was busy placing full-page ads in newspapers and magazines in the U.S. and abroad, heavily promoting Thomas Lowell's New York Times stories and calling for an international investigation into the situation in Matar. The ads played up a theme of Thomas's reporting, namely that Wasabia was being manipulated by France; indeed, that Wasabia was "a mere tool" of Paris.
According to Thomas's well-sourced reporting. Wasabia had been persuaded to back the coup in Matar "by the same secret services who now are planting explosives under the saddle of the emir." France. Thomas asserted, was determined to put "its own man" on the throne in order to "keep the Wasabis off balance."
Nor was that all: The advertisements proclaimed that French and Wasabi elements within Matar had captured both the American woman Florence and the widow of the late ("and much beloved") emir, the sheika Laila. The Friends of Free Matar proclaimed that the two women were being held in a "notorious torture center" outside Amo-Amas—"grim by even American torture and interrogation standards."
At the bottom of the advertisements were the words, in large, accusatory lettering:
WHY THE SILENCE OF THE U.S. STATE DEPARTMENT?
It all made for riveting reading—in Paris, Kaffa and Washington. The American president, not a man given to personal coarseness, was moved—having for once actually picked up a newspaper—to say at his regular morning intelligence briefing, "What the fuck is going on in Matar?"
That the situation was approaching a crisis was clear from the headline that appeared the very next day:
PEOPLE FOR THE ETHICAL TREATMENT OF ANIMALS "INDIGNANT" OVER USE OF CAMELS IN ASSASSINATIONS
Calls for Treaty Banning Use of Camels in Political Killings
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Quelle ordure, Delame-Noir thought, pausing before being admitted to the emir's chambers. He pressed a fine linen handkerchief from the Pas de Calais to his perspiring brow. The past few days had not been good. He had taken calls from a furious president of France, a livid king of Wasabia and an apoplectic emir. But he was resolved to stand upright and look his best. Delame-Noir was, when all was said and done, a man of une certaine dignite.
The door opened, and he found himself in the familiar place. Yet how much everything had changed.
"Bonjour. mon emir. You look much better. I delight to say."
"What?" Maliq barked. "Eh?"
A doctor murmured to Delame-Noir that
the emir's hearing was 10 percent of its former capacity. Delame-Noir sighed inwardly. He was, in addition to being a man of certain dignity, a man of nuance—an artist of the gesture and feint. Now he would be reduced to shouting his explanations at close range into the (remaining) ear of a purple-faced, legless Middle Fast tin-pot dictator. This, he knew, would be a grim uphill slog. The situation in Amo-Amas had deteriorated catastrophically.
Alter the report about the Exuperine appeared on television—quel desastre!—Maliq had petulantly refused two calls from the president of France. He had also refused calls from Prince Bawad, who was desperate to convince him that Wasabia was no "tool" of France. Maliq had even refused a call from King Tallulah.
The emir was fortified in his obtuse truculence by Salim bin-Judar, who had assumed the duties of vizier in addition to royal bodyguard, Fetish had been arrested. Not just arrested, but being interrogated by Salim's men. undergoing, as the French has it, peine forte et dure. He had made excuses for Delame-Noir and la belle France one too many times. Another calamity in the making. Delame-Noir could only pray that Fetish was made of stern stuff, but he knew from experience never to count on the fortitude of paid informers.
As lor Maliq, he was, if no smarter than before, certainly more determined: no longer the callow vacillator but every inch—such inches as remained— Maliq the Formidable, to say nothing of Maliq the Paranoid.
He had sealed his border with Wasabia, put his military forces on alert, recalled his ambassador from Kaffa and expelled the French ambassador from Amo-Amas, along with all French nationals in Matar. When France dispatched a fleet of Airbuses to collect its citizens. Maliq denied landing rights. The French were forced to undergo the humiliation of standing on the municipal wharf in Amo in the baking heat and board—like refugees—several forlorn coastal freighters for Dubai. Not since Dunkirk had there been such an inglorious evacuation—and who cares more about glory than the French'.''
"I bring "lour Greatness good news." Delame-Noir said.
"WHAT?"
"GOOD NEWS, EMINENCE, WE HAVE ESTABLISHED WHO PLACED THE BOMB."
Maliq scowled. His lips were coated in burn ointment, making his livid visage especially repellent "Ennh!"
The meaning of "Ennh!" was unclear. Delame-Noir soldiered on. "IT WAS THE AMERICANS. THE MAN THIBODEAUX, THE LOVER OF THE WOMAN FLORENCE. HE WAS POSING AS—I REGRET TO SAY—A FRENCHMAN, ALONG WITH AN IMPOSTER PRETENDING TO BE AN EMISSARY OF KING TALLULAH YASSIM—"
"Proof—what proof?"
"I QUESTIONED YASSIM, GREATNESS, BEFORE HE—" "Bah. Bring him here. I will question the dog myself."
"I REGRET THAT IS NOT POSSIBLE. IMAM. HE HAS, MALEUREUSEMENT, EXPIRED FROM HIS WOUNDS."
Yassim, that imbecile of imbeciles, had managed one final spectacular feat of incompetence: dying before he could corroborate what he had told Delame-Noir. Of course. Maliq knew very well that Yassim had died, but he wasn't about to make things easier for Delame-Noir, whom he blamed one way or the other for everything that had happened. It was, after all, Delame-Noir who had first suggested that Maliq take over the throne of Matar. Yassim's death had not only deprived Delame-Noir of his witness, it also made it appear that Delame-Noir had killed him. Had the Frenchman not arrived at Yassim's deathbed with some "eminent neurologist" from Paris and ordered everyone out? And was Yassim not dead a few hours later? All this had been duly reported to Maliq by the guards Delame-Noir had ordered out of the room, eager to assert their innocence and the Frenchman's villainy.
"Where is your proof' Maliq demanded.
"I SHOWED YASSIM A PHOTO. HE—"
"Yassim is DEAD!"
"THEIR PLAN, MAGNIFICENCE, WAS TO MAKE IT APPEAR THAT WASABIA AND FRANCE, YOUR GREAT FRIENDS AND ALLIES. MADE THIS PLOT IN ORDER TO DECEIVE YOU INTO—"
"The explosive—where did the Americans get that? Eh? EH?"
"YES, THAT IS WHAT WE ARE AT THIS MOMENT INVESTIGA—"
"And why didn't your people have THAT in their report? Eh? Eh?"
Maliq now had Delame-Noir by the Achilles heel. Upon seeing the word "Exuperine" in the bomb squad's report, Delame-Noir had changed it to "Semtex." a more common type of plastic explosive manufactured in the Czech Republic and used by—well, practically everyone. It was this altered version of the report that he had forwarded on to the Matari authorities.
But unbeknownst to Delame-Noir. Colonel Nebkir had been conducting his own forensic analysis at the bomb site. His investigators, finding abundant traces of Exuperine in the remains of Shem, in fragments of the ceremonial saddle and in the shredded royal footwear, had passed along their report to the emir's men (and certain other people). Delame-Noir thus found himself in the unhappy position of being trapped in a lie the size of Montmartre.
When I here is no way out, the only way to go is—forward.
"MON EMIR, THERE APPEAR TO BE FORCES AT WORK HERE BEYOND EVEN MY UNDERSTANDING HOWEVER, I AM CONFIDENT- "
"Bah, Lies! It was FRENCH explosive that did this to me! Look at me!"
"WELL. PERHAPS IT WAS MANUFACTURED IN FRANCE, BIT I CAN ASSURE YOU THAT IT WAS NOT YOUR GOOD FRENCH FRIENDS WHO—"
"I have the report!"
"SIRE. DON'T YOU SEE? THEY ARE TRYING TO MAKE IT APPEAR THE WORK OF PARIS AND KAFFA. TO DRIVE A WEDGE BETWEEN YOU AND YOUR MOST TRUSTED FRIENDS AND ALLIES. TO BE SURE, THEY HAVE HAD SOME SUCCESS AT THIS DECEPTION, BUT..."
A doctor with a worried look entered and gave the emir an injection. Delame-Noir forged ahead with his explanations, all too aware of how awkward and unconvincing they sounded. Having to bellow did not help.
"This alleged letter from Tallulah to Yassim," Maliq said, momentarily calmed by whatever it was they'd injected Into his veins, "where is it? Show it to me."
Delame-Noir sighed. Thibodeaux had out maneuvered him here as well. A search of Yassim s room had produced a letter, all right—a thick, expensive piece of creamy foolscap—completely blank. The ink had vanished. One of the oldest tricks in the trade, and still effective, alas, assuming of course that the target was an imbecile like Yassim.
"THE LETTER WAS WRITTEN IN VANISHING INK. HOLY ONE. BUT I AM CERTAIN THAT A CHEMICAL ANALYSIS WILL SHOW BEYOND QUESTION THAT THE PAPER WE FOUND ONCE CONTAINED INK AND—"
"Enough! Enough pathetic, miserable excuses! You were supposed to protect me! And now look at me! How would you like to lose your legs, eh? Eh, French?"
Recognizing that this was a part of the world where the punitive removal of limbs was still practiced, the old Frenchman decided that the prudent course was retreat, immediate retreat. He was not a coward. He had fought at Dien Bien Phu and killed more Arabs in Algeria than anyone. He didn't mind dying, if it came to that—a final ritual cigarette before the firing squad, not such a bad way to go. But having legs sawed off to assuage the pride of a demented emir, no. this prospect Delame-Noir did not relish.
"REST, OH GREAT OXK. I SHALL BRING YOUR PROOF. AND YOU WILL SEE WHO ARE YOUR TRUE FRIENDS."
"OUT! GET OUT!"
The doctor, frowning, leaned forward. "IMAM, YOU MUST REST!"
Delame-Noir retreated backward in the protocol of taking leave of royalty. At the door, he took a last look at the hysterical, legless emir who had once been his chef d'oevre: Maliq's face was one large, ointment-coated bruise, so empurpled that Delame-Noir thought for one ghastly moment that it might just burst.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Florence awoke to light and the suspicion, lasting several seconds, that she was dead and that all this whiteness was the decorative motif in some waiting room on the near bank of the river Styx.
She became aware of a pain in her left temple and a bandage, and she knew that she was not dead. She felt metal around her left wrist: a manacle attaching her to the bed.
She was no longer in a dark cell with a corpse, or in a room with armed men bawling at her. but in a brightly lit. clean room on a cot covered with a sheet. They had bathed her, too. She no longer smelled of death.
Florence looked at the door
and saw a face peering through the thick glass and wire-mesh window. The face registered that she was conscious now, and disappeared, leaving her a few more moments of tranquillity in which to try to assess her situation.
The last thing she remembered was a pistol being pressed against her forehead. Salim bin-Judar. Another person had been present, Colonel... Nebkir? The wound in her temple throbbed. With her free hand, she worked her fingers under the bandage, feeling sutures stiff as fishing line. Bin-Judar must have knocked her out with the pistol. Was she in some sort of prison hospital? Evidently, they didn't want her dead just yet.
The door opened, and Salim bin-Judar entered. He no longer looked formidable, oddly, but more like a harassed middle manager running late for a PowerPoint presentation on how to cut 8 percent out of next quarter's operating budget. He carried a clipboard.
"You're awake, then? Will you sign this now?" he handed her the clipboard.
"What am I confessing to today?"
"Your role in the attempt on the emir's life. You're to be executed tomorrow evening. Whether you sign this or not."
His casualness appeared studied. There was something else I had to tell you— oh yes, we're killing you tomorrow night, having a few people over.
All right. Florence thought. She too, could be casual. "I'll sign whatever you want," she said, almost with a shrug, "but you must let me see the sheika."
"She's not here. She's somewhere else." It was obvious he was lying.
"Is she well?"
"Alive is well enough."
"Let me see her, and I will sign." She handed him back his clipboard. "I will talk no more of it. You hold no more terrors for me, Salim."
Salim stared at her. A flicker of something like respect crossed his face. In his career so far, he had informed sixteen people that they would be executed; none had taken the news so placidly. He left.
An hour later, the door to Florence's cell opened again, admitting two guards. They did not handle her roughly or manacle her, but covered her head with an abaaya and led her out of the cell. After walking down a corridor or two, she heard a series of doors opening and fell the immediate baking heat of outdoors. She was put into a vehicle between two men, one of whom had terrible body odor. They drove for under an hour. She was taken from the vehicle, fell again the oven heat of Matar—unless she was in Wasabia—and was taken inside, where it was cool again. They put her in a chair. In front of her, she felt a table. They left the abaaya on her, and having no mesh or eye slit, she could not see. Some minutes passed, then a door opened and she heard male voices. She had told Salim the truth: They had no terrors left for her. Her fear was exhausted.
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