A Fire in the Sun

That wasn’t what I expected, either. I guess I groaned. “Mecca,” I said.

“The pilgrimage.” He opened his eyes. He looked frightened, not of the surgery but of his unfulfilled obligation to Allah. “It is past time,” he said, and then they wheeled him away.

I decided the wise thing was to wait until my arm was unwrapped before I faced down Abu Adil. After all, the great Salah ad-Din didn’t reconquer Jerusalem and drive out the Franj Crusaders by riding down into battle with half his army. Not that I planned to get into a fistfight with Shaykh Reda or Umar, but I’d taken enough nicks and scrapes lately to learn a little prudence.

Things had quieted down considerably. For a time, we worried and prayed to Allah for Friedlander Bey’s recovery. He’d survived the surgery and Dr. Lisan had pronounced it a success; but Papa slept almost around the clock, day after day. He roused occasionally and talked with us, although he was terribly confused about who we all were and what century it was.

With Umm Saad and her son gone, the atmosphere in the house was more cheerful. I concerned myself with Papa’s business matters, acting in his place to settle disputes among the city’s caterers of the ungodly. I let Mahmoud know that I would be tough but fair as Friedlander Bey’s deputy, and he seemed to accept that. At least, he dropped his resentment. That may have been just an act. You can never accurately read Mahmoud.

I also had to handle a major foreign crisis, when the new tyrant of Eritrea came to me demanding to know what was going on in his own country. I took care of that mess, thanks to Papa’s impeccable record keeping and Tariq and Youssef’s knowledge of where everything was.

My mother continued to alternate between modestly mature and brazenly foolish. Sometimes when we talked, we were sorry for the way we’d punished each other in the past. Other times, we wanted to slit each other’s throats. Kmuzu told me that this kind of relationship is not unusual between parent and child, particularly after both have reached a certain age. I accepted that, and I didn’t worry about it anymore.

Chiriga’s continued to make lots of money, and both Chiri and I were satisfied. I guess she would’ve been more satisfied if I’d sold the club back to her, but I enjoyed owning it too much. I decided to hang on to it a little while longer, the way I decided to hang on to Kmuzu.

When the muezzin’s call to prayer came, I answered it a large percentage of the time, and went to the mosque on a Friday or two. I was becoming known as a kind and generous man, not just in the Budayeen but all through the city. Wherever I went, people called me Shaykh Marid al-Amin. I didn’t completely stop taking drugs, however, because I was still injured and I saw no reason to take the chance of enduring unnecessary agony.

All in all, the month after I’d kissed off the police department was a welcome experiment with peace and quiet. It all came to an end one Tuesday, just before lunch, when I answered the phone. “Marhaba,” I said.

“Praise be to God. This is Umar Abdul-Qawy.”

I didn’t say anything for a few seconds. “The hell do you want?” I said.

“My master is concerned for the health of Fried-lander Bey. I’m calling to inquire as to his condition.”

I was coming to a quick boil. I didn’t really know what to say to Umar. “He’s fine. He’s resting.”

“Then he’s able to take care of his duties?” There was a smugness in his voice that I hated a lot.

“I said he’s fine, all right? Now, I got work to do.”

“Just a second, Monsieur Audran.” And then his voice got positively sanctimonious. “We believe you may have something that properly belongs to Shaykh Reda.”

I knew what he was talking about, and it made me smile. I liked being the screwer rather than the screwee. “I don’t know what you mean, Himmar.” I don’t know, something made me say it. I knew it would pluck his beard.

“The moddy,” he said. “The goddman moddy.”

I paused to savor what I heard in his voice. “Well, hell,” I said, “you got it all wrong. As I recall, you have the goddamn moddy. Remember? Himmar? You cuffed my hands behind my back, and then you beat me bloody, and then you jacked me into a moddy link and read off my brain. You guys done with it yet?”

There was silence. I think Umar hoped I wouldn’t remember that moddy. That’s not what he wanted to talk about. I didn’t care, I had the floor. “How’s it work, you son of a bitch?” I said. “You wear my brain while that sick bastard jams you? Or the other way around? How am I, Umar? Any competition for Honey Pilar?”

I heard him trying to get himself under control. “Perhaps we could arrange an exchange,” he said at last. “Shaykh Reda truly wishes to make amends. He wants his personality module returned. I’m sure he would agree to give you the recording we made of you plus a suitable cash settlement.”

“Cash,” I said. “How much?”

“I can’t say for certain, but I’m sure Shaykh Reda would be very generous. He realizes that he’s put you through a great deal of discomfort.”

“Yeah, you right. But business is business, and action is action. How much?”

“Ten thousand kiam,” said Umar.

I knew that if I balked, he’d name a higher figure; but I wasn’t interested in their money. “Ten thousand?” I said, trying to sound impressed.

“Yes.” Umar’s voice got smug again. He was going to pay for that. “Shall we meet here, in an hour? Shaykh Reda instructed me to say that our staff is preparing a special midday meal in your honor. We hope you’ll let our past differences go, Shaykh Marid. Shaykh Reda and Friedlander Bey must join together now. You and I must be partners in harmony. Don’t you agree?”

“I do testify that there is no god but Allah,” I declared solemnly.

“By the Lord of the Kaaba,” swore Umar, “this will be a memorable day for both our houses.”

I hung up the phone. “Damn straight about that,” I said. I sat back in my chair. I didn’t know who would have the upper hand when the afternoon was over, but the days of the false peace had come to an end.

I’m not a total fool, so I didn’t go to Abu Adil’s palace alone. I took one of the Stones That Speak with me, as well as Kmuzu and Saied. Now, the latter two had been exploited by Shaykh Reda, and they both felt they had scores to settle with him. When I asked if they’d like to join me in my devious charade, they eagerly agreed.

“I want a chance to make up for selling you out to Shaykh Reda,” said the Half-Hajj.

I was checking my two weapons, and I looked up. “But you’ve already done that. When you pulled me out of that alley.”

“Nan,” he said, “I still feel like I owe you at least one more.”

“You have an Arabic proverb,” said Kmuzu thoughtfully. “ ‘When he promised, he fulfilled his promise. When he threatened, he did not fulfill his threat, but he forgave.’ It is equivalent to the Christian idea of turning the other cheek.”

“That’s right,” I said. “But people who live their lives by proverbs waste their time doing lots of stupid things. ‘Getting even is the best revenge’ is my motto.”

“I wasn’t counseling retreat, yaa Sidi. I was only making a philological observation.”

Saied gave Kmuzu an irritated look. “And this big bald guy is something else you got to pay back Abu Adil for,” he said.

The ride out to Abu Adil’s palace in Hamidiyya was strangely pleasant. We laughed and talked as if we were on some enjoyable picnic or outing. I didn’t feel afraid, even though I wasn’t wearing a moddy or any daddies. Saied talked almost nonstop in the scatterbrained way that had given him his nickname. Kmuzu kept his eyes straight ahead as he drove, but even he put in a light-hearted comment now and then. Habib or Labib — whichever he was — sat beside Saied in the backseat and did his silent sandstone giant routine.

Abu Adil’s guard passed us immediately through the gate, and we drove up through the beautifully landscaped grounds. “Let’s wait a minute,” I said, as Kamal, the butler, opened the house’s massive, carved front door. I checked my static pistol again and passed the small seizure gun to the Half-Hajj; Kmuzu had the needle gun that had formerly belonged to Umm Saad. The Stone didn’t need any weapon beyond his own bare hands.

I clucked my tongue impatiently. “What is it, yaa Sidi?” asked Kmuzu.

“I’m deciding what to wear.” I browsed through myrack of moddies and daddies. I finally decided that I’d wear Rex and carry the Abu Adil moddy. I also chipped in the daddies that blocked pain and fear.

“When this is over,” Saied said wistfully, “can I have Rex back? I really miss wearing him.”

“Sure,” I said, even though I enjoyed wearing the badass moddy myself. Saied just wasn’t the same without it. For now, I let him have the anthology. I was hoping to see Mike Hammer put his fist in Abu Adil’s face.

“We must be careful,” said Kmuzu. “We cannot be lulled, because treachery runs in Shaykh Reda’s blood like the bilharzia worm.”

“Thanks,” I said, “but I’m not likely to forget it.”

Then the four of us got out of the car and walked up the ceramic-tiled path to the door. It was a warm, pleasant day, and the sun felt good on my face. I was dressed in a white gallebeya and my head was covered with a knitted Algerian skullcap. It was a simple costume, and it made me look humble.

We followed Kamal to a meeting room on the second floor. I felt myself tense as we passed Abu Adil’s recording studio. I took a few deep breaths, and by the time the butler bowed us into his master’s presence, I was relaxed again.

Abu Adil and Umar were sitting on large pillows spread in a semicircle in the center of the room. There was a raised platform in the midst of the arrangement, and already several large bowls of food had been set there, along with pots of coffee and tea.

Our hosts rose to greet us. I noticed immediately that neither of them had any hardware chipped in. Abu Adil came to me, smiling broadly. He embraced me and said, “Ahlan wa sahlan!” in a cheerful voice. “Welcome, and be refreshed!”

“I am glad to see you again, O Shaykh. May Allah open His ways to you.”

Abu Adil was happy to see how subdued I was behaving. He wasn’t happy, however, that I’d brought Kmuzu, Saied, and the Stone. “Come, rinse the dust from your hands,” he said. “Let me pour water for you. Of course, your slaves are welcome too.”

“Watch it, chum,” growled Saied, wearing the Mike Hammer moddy. “I’m no slave.”

“Exactly, of course,” said Abu Adil, never losing his good humor.

We made ourselves comfortable on the cushions and exchanged still more of the obligatory compliments. Umar poured me a cup of coffee, and I said, “May your table last forever.”

“May God lengthen your life,” said Umar. He wasn’t nearly so happy as his boss.

We sampled the food and chatted amiably for a while. The only sour note was struck by the Half-Hajj, who spat out an olive pit and said, “This all you got?” Shaykh Reda’s face froze. I had a hard time not laughing out loud.

“Now,” said Abu Adil after a proper amount of time had passed, “will you object if I bring up the matter of business?”

“No, O Shaykh,” I said, “I am eager to conclude this matter.”

“Then give me the personality module you took from this house.” Umar handed him a small vinyl satchel, which Abu Adil opened. There were banded stacks of fresh ten-kiam bills in it.

“I ask something more in trade,” I said.

Umar’s face darkened. “You are a fool if you think you can change our bargain now. The agreement was ten thousand kiam.”

I ignored him. I turned to Abu Adil. “I want you to destroy the Phoenix File.”

Abu Adil laughed delightedly. “Ah, you are a remarkable man. But I know that from wearing this.” He held up the moddy he’d made the day he’d mind-raped me. “The Phoenix File is life to me. Because of it, I have lived to this advanced age. I will no doubt need it again. With the file, I may live another hundred years.”

“I’m sorry, Shaykh Reda,” I said, taking out my static pistol, “but I’m very determined.” I glanced at my friends. They too held their weapons on Abu Adil and Umar.

“No more of this foolishness,” said Umar. “You came here to exchange moddies. Let’s complete the transaction, and then whatever happens in the future is in the hands of Allah.”

I kept my gun pointed at Abu Adil, but I took a sip from my cup of coffee. “The refreshments are most excellent, O Shaykh,” I said. I set my cup down again. “I want you to destroy the Phoenix File. I’ve worn your moddy, I know where it is. Kmuzu and Saied can hold you here while I go get it.”

Abu Adil didn’t seem the least bit upset. “You’re bluffing,” he said, spreading his hands. “If you’ve worn my moddy, then you know that I have copies. The moddy will tell you where one or two duplicate files are, but Umar has still others, and you won’t learn where they are.”

“Hell,” said the Half-Hajj, “I bet I can make him talk.”

“Never mind, Saied,” I said. I realized that Abu Adil was right; we were at an impasse. Destroying a bubble plate here and a printout there would accomplish nothing. I couldn’t destroy the concept of the Phoenix File, and at this point Abu Adil would never agree to abandon it.

Kmuzu leaned nearer. “You must persuade him to give it up, yaa Sidi.”

“Any ideas?”

“Unfortunately, no.”

I had one last trump to play, but I hated to use it. If it failed, Abu Adil would win, and I’d never be able to protect myself or Friedlander Bey’s interests against him. Still, there was no other choice. “Shaykh Reda,” I said slowly, “there are many other things recorded on your moddy. I learned astonishing things about what you’ve done and what you plan to do.”

Abu Adil’s expression grew worried for the first time. “What are you talking about?” he asked.

I tried to look unconcerned. “You know, of course, that the strict religious leaders disapprove of brain implants. I couldn’t find an imam who’d had one, so none of them could chip in your moddy and experience it directly. But I did speak with Shaykh Al-Hajj Muhammad ibn Abdurrahman, who leads prayers at the Shimaal Mosque.”

Abu Adil stared at me, his eyes wide. The Shimaal Mosque was the largest and most powerful congregation in the city. The pronouncements of its clergy often had the force of law.

I was bluffing, of course. I’d never set foot inside the Shimaal Mosque. And I’d just invented that imam’s name.

Shaykh Reda’s voice faltered. “What did you discuss with him?”

I grinned. “Why, I gave him a detailed description of all your past sins and your intended crimes. Now, there’s a fascinating technical point that hasn’t been cleared up yet. I mean, the religious elders haven’t ruled on whether or not a personality module recorded from a living person is admissible as evidence in a court of Islamic law. You know and I know that such a moddy is wholly reliable, much more so than any sort of mechanical lie detector. But the imams, bless their righteous hearts, are debating the matter back and forth. It may be a long while before they pass a ruling, but then again, you may already be in very serious trouble.”

I paused to let what I’d said sink in. I’d just made up this religious-legal wrangle on the fly, but it was entirely plausible. It was a question that Islam would have to come to grips with, just as the faith had had to deal with every other technological advance. It was only a matter of judging how the science of neuroaugmentation related to the teachings of Prophet Muhammad, may the blessings of Allah be on him and peace.

Abu Adil moved restlessly on his cushion. He was obviously wrestling with two unpleasant options: destroying the Phoenix File, or being turned over to the notoriously unforgiving representatives of the Messenger of God. Finally, he gave a great sigh. “Hear my decision,” he said. “I offer you Umar Abdul-Qawy in my place.”

I laughed. There was a horrified squeal from Umar. “The hell do we want with him?” asked the Half-Hajj.

“I’m sure you learned from the moddy that Umar originated many of my less honorable business practices,” said Abu Adil. “His guilt is nearly as great as my own. I, however, have power and influence. Maybe not enough to hold off the wrath of the city’s entire Islamic community, but certainly enough to deflect it.”

I appeared to consider this point. “Yes,” I said slowly, “it would be very difficult to convict you.”

“But not difficult at all to convict Umar.” Shaykh Reda looked at his assistant. “I’m sorry, my boy, but you’ve brought this on yourself. I know all about your shabby plottings. When I wore Shaykh Marid’s moddy, didn’t I find out about your conversation with him? The one in which he turned down your invitation to dispose of me and Friedlander Bey?”

Umar’s face had gone deathly pale. “But I never intended—”

Abu Adil did not seem angry, only very sad. “Did you think you were the first to have that notion? Where are your predecessors, Umar? Where are all the ambitious young men who’ve held your position that last century and a half? Almost every one of them plotted against me, sooner or later. And they are all gone now and forgotten. Just as you will be.”

“Face it, Himmar,” taunted Saied, “you have to wear the shirt you sewed. Paybacks are a bitch, ain’t they?”

Abu Adil shook his head. “I will be sorry to lose you, Umar. I couldn’t have cared for you more if I’d been your true father.”

I was amused, and glad that events were turning out as I planned. A line of American fiction occurred to me: “If you lose a son it’s possible to get another — but there’s only one Maltese falcon.”

Umar, though, had other ideas. He jumped up and screamed at Abu Adil. “I’ll see you dead first! All of you!”

Saied fired the seizure gun before Umar even drew his own weapon. Umar collapsed to the floor, writhing in convulsions, his face twisted in an ugly grimace. At last, he was still. He’d be unconscious for a few hours but he’d recover, and he’d feel like hell for a long time afterward.

“Well,” said the Half-Hajj, “he folds up real nice.”

Abu Adil let out a sigh. “This is not how I intended for this afternoon to go.”

“Really?” I said.

“I must admit, I’ve underestimated you. Do you wish to take him with you?”

I didn’t really want to be saddled with Umar because, after all, I hadn’t actually spoken to the imam. “No,” I said, “I think I’ll leave him in your hands.”

“You can be assured there will be justice,” said Shaykh Reda. The look he turned on his scheming assistant was chilling. I was almost sorry for Umar.

“Justice,” I said, using an old Arab saying, “is that you should restore things to their places. I would like my moddy now.”

“Yes, of course.” He leaned across the still form of Umar Abdul-Qawy and put the moddy in my hand. “And take the money,” he said.

“No, I don’t think so,” I said. “But I’ll keep the moddy I have of you. To guarantee your cooperation.”

“If you must,” he said unhappily. “You understand that I have not agreed to abandon the Phoenix File.”

“I understand.” Then I was struck by a sudden thought. “I have one last request, however.”

“Yes?” He looked suspicious.

“I wish to have my name removed from the file, and the names of my friends and relatives.”

“Of course,” said Abu Adil, glad that my last demand was so easy to fulfill. “I would be pleased to oblige. Merely send me a complete list at your convenience.”

Later, as we walked back to the car, Kmuzu and Saied congratulated me. “That was a complete victory,” said the Half-Hajj.

“No,” I said, “I wish it were. Abu Adil and Papa still have that goddamn Phoenix File, even if some of our names will be taken off. I feel like I’m trading the lives of my friends for the lives of other innocent people. I told Shaykh Reda, ‘Go ahead, kill those other guys, I don’t care.’ ”

“You accomplished as much as was possible, yaa Sidi,” said Kmuzu. “You should be grateful to God.”

“I suppose.” I popped Rex and gave the moddy to Saied, who grinned to have it back. We rode back to the house; Kmuzu and Saied discussed what had happened at great length, but I just rode in silence, wrapped in gloomy thoughts. For some reason, I felt like a failure. I felt as if I’d made an evil compromise. I also felt uncomfortably sure that it wouldn’t be my last.

Late that night, I was awakened by someone opening the door to my bedroom. I lifted my head and saw a woman enter, dressed in a short, clinging negligee.

The woman lifted the covers and slipped into bed beside me. She put one hand on my cheek and kissed me. It was a great kiss. I woke up completely. “I bribed Kmuzu to let me in,” she whispered. I was surprised to realize it was Indihar.

“Yeah? How do you bribe Kmuzu?”

“I told him I’d take your mind off your pain.”

“He knows I got pills and software to do that.” I rolled over on my side to face her. “Indihar, what are you doing here?” I asked. “You said you weren’t going to sleep with me.”

“Well, I changed my mind,” she said. She didn’t sound very enthusiastic. “Here I am. I’ve been thinking about how I acted when… after Jirji died.”

“May the mercy of Allah be on him,” I murmured. I put my arm around her. Despite her attempt to be brave, I could feel warm tears on her face.

“You’ve done a lot for me, and for the kids.”

Yipe. “That’s why you’re here? Because you’re grateful?”

“Well,” she said, “yes. I’m in your debt.”

“You don’t love me, do you, Indihar?”

“Marid,” she said, “don’t get me wrong. I like you, but—”

“But that’s all there is. Listen, I really don’t think being here together is a great idea. You told me you weren’t going to sleep with me, and I respected that.”

“Papa wants us to be married,” she said. Her voice took on an angry edge.

“He thinks it shames his house for us to be living together otherwise. Even if we aren’t, you know, sleeping together.”

“Even though my children need a father, and they like you, I won’t marry you, Marid. I don’t care what Papa says.”

Actually, marriage was something I thought happened only to other people, like fatal traffic accidents. I still felt an obligation to take care of Shaknahyi’s widow and children, and if I had to marry someone, I could do worse than Indihar. But still…

“I think Papa may forget all about it by the time he gets out of the hospital.”

“Just so you understand,” said Indihar. She gave me another kiss — this one chastely on the cheek — and then she quietly got out of my bed and went back to her own room.

I felt like such a noble son of a bitch. I’d made her feel better, but deep down I had no confidence at all that Friedlander Bey would forget his decree. All I could think about was Yasmin, and if she’d still go out with me after I was married to Indihar.

I couldn’t get back to sleep. I just turned from one side to the other, twisting the sheets up into a tangled mess. Finally I gave up and got out of bed and went into the study. I sat in the comfortable leather armchair and picked up the Wise Counselor moddy. I looked at it for a few seconds, wondering if it could possibly make sense out of recent events. “Bismillah,” I murmured. Then I reached up and chipped it in.

Audran seemed to be in a deserted city. He wandered through narrow, congested alleys — hungry, thirsty, and very tired. After a while he turned a corner and came into a great market square. The booths and stalls were deserted, empty of merchandise. Still, Audran recognized where he was. He was back in Algeria. “Hello?” he shouted. There was no answer. He remembered an old saying: “I came to the place of my birth, and cried, “The friends of my youth, where are they?’ An echo answered, ‘Where are they?’

He began to weep with sadness. Then a man spoke, and Audran turned. He recognized the man as the Messenger of God. “Shaykh Marid,” said the Prophet, may blessings be on him and peace, “don’t you consider me the friend of your youth?”

And Audran smiled. “Yaa Hazrat, does not everyone in the world desire your friendship? But my love for Allah so completely fills my heart that there is no room there for love or hate for anyone.”

“If that is true, “said Prophet Muhammad, “then you are blessed. Remember, though, that this verse was revealed: ‘Thou shalt never reach the broad door of piety until thou givest away what thou lovest best.’ What do you love best, O Shaykh?”

I awoke, but this time I didn’t have Jirji Shaknahyi to explain the vision. I wondered what the answer to the Prophet’s question might be: comfort, pleasure, freedom? I hated the idea of giving up any of those, but I might as well get used to the idea. My life with Friedlander Bey rarely entailed the notions of ease or liberty.

But my life needn’t begin again until morning. In the meantime, I had the problem of getting through the night. I went to search for my pillcase.