9

Aboard the suborbital craft Imam Muhammad al-Baqir, the amenities were hardly superior to those on the ship that had flown us to Najran, into exile. We weren't prisoners now, but our fare didn't include a meal or even free drinks. "That's what we get for being stranded at the ends of the Earth," I said. "Next time, we should work to be stranded in a more comfortable place."

Friedlander Bey only nodded; he saw no joke in my statement, as if he foresaw many such kidnappings and strandings to come. His lack of humor was something of a trademark with him. It had raised him from a penniless immigrant to one of the two most influential men in the city. It had also left him with an exaggerated sense of caution. He trusted no one, even after testing people again and again over a period of years. I still wasn't entirely sure that he trusted me.

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.

Bill waved one sunburned arm. "It was nice meeting you," he said.

"Right, Bill," I said. "Who is Christy Mathewson?"

"One of the best players in the history of the game. 'The Big Six,' they called him. Maybe two hundred, two hundred fifty years ago."

"Two hundred fifty years!" I said, astonished.

"Yeah?" said Bill angrily. "What's it to ya?"

I shook my head. "You know where Friedlander Bey's house is?"

"Sure," said Bill. "What's the matter? You guys forget where you put it? It just didn't get up and walk away."

"Here's an extra ten kiam. Drive my young friend to Friedlander Bey's house, and make sure he gets there safely."

"Sure thing," said the cab driver.

I peered into the back seat, where bin Turki looked horrified that he'd have to ride with Bill, all alone and lost in the big city. "We'll see you in a day or two," I told him. "In the meantime, Youssef and Tariq will take care of you. Have a good time!"

Bin Turki just stared at me with wide eyes, gulping but not actually forming any coherent words. I turned on my heel and followed Papa to the unlocked door at the rear of the Blue Parrot. I was sure that Bill would forget the entire conversation soon after he delivered bin Turki to the mansion.

We went up a stairway made of fine polished hardwood. It twisted around in a complete circle, and we found ourselves on a landing, faced by two doors. The door to the left was locked, probably Ferrari's private apartment. The door to the right opened into a spacious parlor, decorated in a European style with lots of dark wood paneling and potted palms and a piano in one corner. The furniture was very tasteful and modern, however. Leading off from the parlor were a kitchen and two bedrooms, each with its own bathroom.

"I imagine we can be comfortable here," I said.

Papa grunted and headed for a bedroom. He was almost two hundred years old, and it had been a long and tiring day for him. He shut the bedroom door behind him, and I stayed in the parlor, softly knuckling bits of music at the piano.

In about ten or fifteen minutes, Signor Ferrari came upstairs. "I heard movement up here," he explained in an apologetic manner, "and I wanted to be sure it was you. Did Signor Bey find everything to his liking?"

"Yes, indeed, and we both want to thank you for your hospitality."

"It's nothing, nothing at all." Ferrari was a grossly fat man stuffed inside a plain white linen suit. He wore a red felt fez with a tassel on his head, and he rubbed his hands together anxiously, belying the suave, almost oily tone of his voice.

"Still," I said, "I'm sure Friedlander Bey will find some way to reward your kindness."

"If that is his wish," said Ferrari, his little pig eyes squinting at me, "then I would be honored to accept."

"I'm sure."

"Now, I must get back to my patrons. If there's anything you need, just pick up the phone and call 111. My staff has orders to bring you anything you desire."

"Excellent, Signor Ferrari. If you'll wait a moment, I'd like to write a note. Would one of your staff deliver it for me?"

"Well. . ."

"Just to Chiriga's, on the Street." "Certainly," he said.

I wrote out a quick message to Chiri, telling her that I was, in fact, still alive, but that she had to keep the news secret until we cleared our names. I told her to call Ferrari's number and get extension 777 if she wanted to talk to me about anything, but she shouldn't use the phone in the club because it might be tapped. I folded the note and gave it to Ferrari, who promised that it would be delivered within fifteen minutes.

"Thank you for everything, signor," I said, yawning.

"I will leave you now," said Ferrari. "You no doubt need to rest."

I grunted and shut the door behind him. Then I went to the second guest room and stretched out on the bed. I expected the phone to ring soon.

It didn't take long. I answered the phone with a curt "Where y'at?"

It was Chiri, of course. For a few seconds, all I could hear was gibberish. Then I slowly began to separate words from the hysterical flow. "You're really alive? This isn't some kind of trick?"

I laughed. "Yeah, you right, Chiri, I set this all up before I died. You're talking to a recording. Hey, of course I'm alive! Did you really believe—"

"Hajjar brought me the news that you'd been picked up on a murder rap, both you and Papa, and that you'd been flown into exile from which you couldn't possibly return."

"Well, Chiri, here I am."

"Hell, we all went through a terrible time when we thought you were dead. The grieving was all for nothing, is that what you're telling me?"

"People grieved?" I have to admit the notion gave me a perverse sort of pleasure.

"Well, I sure as hell grieved, and a couple of the girls, and . . . and Indihar. She thought she'd been widowed a second time."

I chewed my lip for a few seconds. "Okay, you can tell Indihar, but no one else. Got that? Not Saied the Half-Hajj or any of my other friends. They're all still under suspicion. Where you calling from?"

"The pay phone in the back of Vast Foods." That was a lunch counter kind of place. The food wasn't really vast. That was a sign painter's error that they never bothered to correct.

"Fine, Chiri. Remember what I said."

"How 'bout if I give you a visit tomorrow?"

I thought that over, and finally I decided that there was little risk, and I really wanted to see Chiri's cannibal grin again. "All right. You know where we are?"

"Above the Blue Parrot?"

"Uh huh."

"This black girl happy-happy, see you tomorrow, Bwana." 

"Yeah, you right," I said, and I hung up the phone. 

My mind was crammed with thoughts and half-formed plans. I tried to go to sleep, but I just lay there for an hour or so. Finally, I heard Friedlander Bey stirring in the kitchen. I got up and joined him.

"Isn't there a teapot around here?" Papa grumbled.

I glanced at my watch. It was a quarter after two in the morning. "Why don't we go downstairs?" I said. "Ferrari will be closing up the place now."

He considered the idea. "I'd like that," he said. "I'd like to sit and relax with a glass or two of tea."

We went downstairs. I carefully checked to make sure all the patrons had left the Blue Parrot, and then Papa took a seat at one of the tables. One of Ferrari's flunkies brought him a pot of tea, and after the first glass, you'd never have known that Papa had just returned from a grim and dangerous exile. He closed his eyes and savored every drop of tea. "Civilized tea," he called it, longing for it every time he'd had to swallow the thin, alkaline tea of the Bani Salim.

I stayed by the door, watching the sidewalk outside. I flinched two or three times as police patrol cars rattled by on the stone-paved street.

Finally, the fatigue caught up with us, and we bid Signor Ferrari good night once more. Then we climbed the stairs to our hiding place. I was asleep within a few minutes of undressing and climbing into Ferrari's comfortable guest bed.

I slept about ten hours. It was the most refreshing, luxurious night's sleep I could remember. It had been a long while since I'd enjoyed clean sheets. Again, I was jolted awake by the phone. I picked up the extension beside my bed. "Yeah?" I said.

"Signor Audran," said Ferrari's voice, "there are two young women to see you. Shall I send them up?"

"Please," I said, running my hand sleepily through my rumpled hair. I hung up the phone and dressed hurriedly.

I could hear Chiri's voice calling from the stairwell, "Marîd? Which door? Where are you, Marîd?"

I hadn't had time to shower or shave, but I didn't care, and I didn't think Chiri would, either. I answered the door and was surprised to see Indihar, too. "Come on in," I said in a low voice. "We'll have to keep it down, because Papa's still asleep."

"All right," murmured Chiri, coming into the parlor. "Nice place Ferrari has up here."

"Oh, these are just his guest rooms. I can only imagine what his own suite is like."

Indihar was wearing widow's black. She came up to me and touched my face. "I am glad to see that you're well, husband," she said, and then she turned away, weeping.

"One thing I gotta know," said Chiri, dropping heavily into an antique wing chair. "Did you or did you not kill that policeman?"

"I did not kill a cop," I said fiercely. "Papa and I were framed for that, and we were tried in absentia, and cast out into the Empty Quarter. Now that we're back—and you can be damn sure that somebody never expected us to get back—we have to solve that crime to clear our names. When we do, heads will roll. Quite literally."

"I believe you, husband," said Indihar, who sat beside me on an expensive couch that matched Chiri's wing chair. "My . . . my late husband and I were good friends with the murdered patrolman. His name was Khalid Maxwell, and he was a kind, generous man. I don't want his killer to get away unpunished."

"I promise you, my wife, that won't happen. He'll pay dearly."

There was an awkward silence for a moment. I looked uncomfortably at Indihar and she stared down at her hands, folded in her lap. Chiri came to our rescue. She coughed politely and said, "Brought something for you, Mr. Boss." I looked toward her; she was grinning, her tattooed face wrinkled up in delight. She held out a plastic moddy rack.

"My moddies!" I said happily. "It looks like all of them."

"You've got enough weirdo stuff there to keep you occupied while you're laying low," said Chiri.

"And here is something else, husband." Indihar was offering me a tan plastic item on the palm of her hand.

"My pillcase!" I was more happy to see it than the moddy rack. I took it and opened it, and saw that it was crammed full of beauties, sunnies, Paxium, everything a working fugitive needed to keep sane in a hostile world. "Although," I said, clearing my throat self-consciously, "I am trying to cut down."

"That's good, husband," said Indihar. The unspoken text was that she still blamed me and my substance abuse for the death of her first husband. She was making a large gesture by giving me the pillcase.

"Where did you get these things?" I asked.

"From Kmuzu," said Chiri. "I just sweet-talked that pretty boy until he didn't know which direction was up."

"I'll bet," I said. "So now Kmuzu knows I'm back, too."

"Hey, it's just Kmuzu," said Chiri. "You can trust him."

Yes, I did trust Kmuzu. More than just about anyone else. I changed the subject. "Wife, how are my step-children?"

"They're all fine," she said, smiling for the first time. "They all want to know where you've gone. I think little Zahra has a crush on you."

I laughed, although I was a little uneasy about that bit of news.

"Well," said Chiri, "we should be going. The Maghrebi here has to get to work on his plans of vengeance. Right, Marîd?"

"Well, sort of. Thanks so much for coming by. And thanks for bringing the moddies and the pillcase. That was very thoughtful."

"Not at all, husband," said Indihar. "I will pray to Allah, thanking Him for returning you." She came to me and gave me a chaste kiss on the cheek.

I walked them to the door. "And the club?" I asked.

Chiri shrugged. "Same old story. Business is dead, the girls are still trying to rob us blind, you know the rest."

Indihar laughed. "The rest is that the club's probably making money like crazy, and your share will need a tractor-trailer to haul it to the bank."

In other words, all was right with the world. Except in the area of personal freedom for myself and Friedlander Bey. I had some ideas on how to improve things along those lines, however. I just needed to make a few important phone calls.

"Salaamtak," said Indihar, bowing before me.

"Allah yisallimak," I replied. Then the two women left, and I closed the door.

Almost immediately, I went to the kitchen and swallowed a few sunnies with a glass of water. I promised myself that I wouldn't get back into my old habits, but that I could afford to reward my recent heroic behavior. Then I'd put the pillcase away and save it for emergencies.

Out of curiosity, I browsed through my rack of moddies and daddies, and discovered that Chiriga had left me a little gift— a new sex-moddy. I examined it. The label said it was Inferno in the Night, one of Honey Pílar's early moddies, but it was recorded from her partner's point of view.

I went into the bedroom, undressed, and lay down on the bed. Then I reached up, murmured "Bismillah," and chipped the moddy in.

The first thing Audran noticed was that he was much younger, much stronger, and filled with an anticipation that bordered on desperation. He felt wonderful, and he laughed as he took off his clothes.

The woman in the bedroom with him was Honey Pílar. Audran had loved her with a consuming passion ever since he met her, two hours ago. He thought it was a great privilege to be allowed to gaze at her and compose clumsy poems in her honor. That he and she might jam was more than he could’ve hoped for.

She stripped slowly and enticingly, then joined Audran on the bed. Her hair was pale blond, her eyes a remarkable green like clean, cool waves in the ocean. "Yes?" she said. "You are much hurt?" Her voice was languid and musical.

Inferno in the Night was one of Honey's earliest sex-moddies, and it had a vestigial story line. Audran realized that he was a wounded hero of the Catalonian struggle for independence, and Honey was playing the courageous daughter of the evil Valencian duke.

"I’m fine," said Audran.

"You need bad massage," she murmured, moving her fingertips gently across his chest and stopping just at the top of his pubic hair. She waited, looking at him for permission.

"Oh, please go ahead, "Audran said.

"For the revolution," she said.

"Sure."

And then she caressed his prick until he could stand it no more. He ran his fingers through her fragrant hair, then grabbed her and turned her on her back.

"Your wounds!"she cried.

"You’ve miraculously healed me."

"Oh good!" she said, sighing as Audran entered her. They jammed slowly at first, then faster and faster until Audran burst with exquisite pleasure.

After a while, Honey Pílar sat up. "I must go," she said sadly. "There are others wounded."

"I understand, "Audran said. He reached up and popped the moddy out.

" Jeez," I muttered. It had been a long time since I'd last spent any time with Honey Pilar. I was beginning to think I was getting too old for this stuff. I mean, I wasn't a kid anymore. As I lay panting on the bed, I realized I'd come dangerously close to pulling a hamstring. Maybe they had sex-moddies recorded by couples who'd been married twenty years. That was more my speed.

There was a knock on my room's door. "My nephew," called Friedlander Bey, "are you all right?"

"Yes, O Shaykh," I answered.

"I ask only because I heard you exclaim."

Yipe. "A nightmare, that's all. Let me take a quick shower, and then I'll join you."

"Very good, O Excellent One."

I got off the bed, ran a quick shower, dressed, and went out into the parlor. "I'd like to get some clean clothes," I said. "I've been wearing this same outfit since we were kidnapped, and I think it's finally dead."

Papa nodded. "I've taken care of that already. I've sent a message to Tariq and Youssef, and they will be here momentarily with fresh clothing and a supply of money."

I sat in the wing chair, and Papa sat on the couch. "I suppose your businesses have been purring along just fine with them at the wheel."

"I trust Tariq and Youssef with my life and more: I trust them with my holdings."

"It will be good to see them again."

"You had visitors earlier. Who were they?"

I gulped. I suddenly realized that he might interpret the visit from Indihar and Chiri as a serious breach in security. Worse than that, he might see it as a punishable stupidity. "My wife and my partner, Chiriga," I said. My mouth went suddenly dry.

But Papa only nodded. "They are both well, I pray?" he said. "Yes, praise Allah, they are."

"I am glad to hear it. Now—" He was interrupted by a knock on the front door of the apartment. "My nephew," he said quietly, "see who's there. If it's not Tariq and Youssef, do not let them in, even if it's one of your friends."

"I understand, O Shaykh." I went to the door and peered through the small peephole. It was indeed Tariq and Youssef, Papa's valet and butler, and the managers of his estate.

I opened the door and they were enthusiastic in their greetings. "Welcome home!" cried Youssef. "Allah be thanked for your safe return! Not that we believed for an instant that story that you both had died in some distant desert."

Tariq carried a couple of hard-sided suitcases into the parlor and set them down. "As-salaam alaykum, yaa Shaykh," he said to me. He turned to Papa and said the same.

"Alaykum as-salaam," said Friedlander Bey. "Tell me what I must know."

They had indeed been keeping business matters up to date. Most of what they discussed with Papa I knew nothing about, but there were two situations in which I'd become involved. The first was the Cappadocian attempt to win independence from Anatolia. I'd met with the Cappadocian representatives— how long ago? It seemed like many months, but it couldn't have been more than a few weeks.

Youssef spoke up. "We've decided that the Cappadocians have a good chance of overthrowing the Anatolian government in their province. With our aid, it would be a certainty. And it would not cost us very much, relatively speaking, to keep them in power long enough."

Long enough? Long enough for what? I wondered. There was still so much I had to learn.

When all the geopolitical issues had been discussed and commented on, I asked, "What about the datalink project?"

"That seems to be stalled, Shaykh Marîd," said Tariq. 

"Unstall it," said Papa.

"We need someone who is not in our household to accept an executive position," said Tariq. "Of course, the executive position will have no real power or influence—that will remain in the household—but we need a, uh, a—"

"Fall guy," I said.

Tariq just blinked. "Yes," he said, "precisely."

"You're working on that, aren't you, my nephew?" asked Papa.

I nodded. "I'm developing someone for that position, yes."

"Very well," said Friedlander Bey, standing. "Everything seems to be in order. I expected no less. Still, you will be rewarded."

Youssef and Tariq bowed and murmured their thanks. Papa placed his left hand on Tariq's head, and his right on Youssef s. He looked like a saint blessing his followers.

"O Shaykh," I said, "isn't there one more thing?"

"Hmm?" he said, glancing at me.

"Concerning Shaykh Mahali," I said.

"Ah yes, O Excellent One. Thank you for reminding me. Youssef, I want you to make an appointment for my grandson and me to meet with the amir. Tell him that we realize that we're fugitives, but also remind him that we were denied our lawful chance to appeal the verdict of our contrived trials. We think we can persuade him that we're innocent, and beg only for an opportunity to plead our case."

"Yes," said Youssef, "I understand. It will be done as you wish."

"As Allah wishes, rather," said Papa.

"As Allah wishes," Youssef murmured.

"Did the boy arrive safely?" I asked.

"Bin Turki?" said Tariq. "Yes, we've installed him in an empty suite of rooms, and he's rather overawed by everything he's seen. He has struck up a friendship with Umm Jirji, your wife."

My mouth twisted. "Wonderful," I said.

"One more thing," said Friedlander Bey, the ruler of half the city. "I want one round-trip suborbital ticket to the town of Najran, in the kingdom of Asir."

That made my blood run cold, let me tell you.