A Fire in the Sun (39 page)

A telephone on the sideboard warbled, and the Stone answered it. "Yes?" he said. He listened for a moment, then held it out to me.

I took it from him. "Hello?" I said.

There was just one word from the caller, "Come." It had been the other Stone.

I felt chilled. "We've got to get to the hospital," I said. I glanced down at Umm Saad's body, undecided what to do.

Kmuzu understood my problem. "Youssef can make the arrangements, yaa Sidi, if that's what you wish."

"Yes," I said. "I may need both of you."

Kmuzu nodded, and we left the dining room with Labib or Habib right behind me. We went outside, and Kmuzu drove the sedan around to the front of the house. I got in the back. I thought the Stone would have an easier time cramming himself into the passenger seat.

Kmuzu raced through the streets almost as wildly as Bill the taxi driver. We arrived at Suite One just as a male nurse was leaving Papa's room.

"How is Friedlander Bey?" I asked fearfully.

"He's still alive," said the nurse. "He's conscious, but you can't stay long. He's going into surgery shortly. The doctor is with him now."

"Thank you," I said. I turned to Kmuzu and the Stone. "Wait outside."

"Yes, yaa Sidi," said Kmuzu. The Stone didn't even grunt. He just cast a quick, hostile glance at Kmuzu.

I went into the suite. I saw another male nurse shaving Papa's skull, evidently prepping it for surgery. Tariq, his valet, stood by looking very worried. Dr. Yeniknani and another doctor sat at the card table, discussing something in low voices. "Praise God you're here," said the valet. "Our master has been asking for you."

"What is it, Tariq?" I asked.

He frowned. He looked almost on the point of tears. "I don't understand. The doctors can explain. But now you must let our master know that you're here."

I went to Papa's bedside and looked down at him. He seemed to be dozing, his breath light and fluttery. His skin was an unhealthy gray color, and his lips and eyelids were unnaturally dark. The nurse finished shaving his head, and that just accentuated Papa's bizarre, deathlike appearance.

He opened his eyes as I stood there. "You have made us lonely, my nephew," he said. His voice was faint, like words carried on the wind.

"May God never make you lonely, O Shaykh," I said. I bent and kissed him on the cheek.

"You must tell me," he began. His breath wheezed and he couldn't finish his sentence.

"All goes well, praise Allah," I said. "Umm Saad is no more. I have yet to instruct Abu Adil on the folly of plotting against you."

The corners of his mouth quirked. "You will be rewarded. How did you defeat the woman?"

I wished he would stop thinking in terms of debts and rewards. "I have a personality module of Shaykh Reda," I said. "When I chipped it in, I learned many things that have been useful."

He caught his breath and looked unhappy. "Then you know—"

"I know of the Phoenix File, O Shaykh. I know that you protect that evil thing in cooperation with Abu Adil."

"Yes. And you know also that I am your mother's grandfather. That you are my great-grandson. But do you understand why we kept that knowledge a secret?"

Well, no, I hadn't known that until just that moment, although if I'd been wearing Abu Adil's moddy and stopped to think about myself or my mother, the information might have popped into my consciousness.

So all that stuff about Papa possibly being my father was just Mom being cute and clever. I guess she'd known the truth all along. And that's why Papa'd been so upset when I'd kicked her out of the house when she first came  to the city. That's why Umm Saad had caused him so much grief: Because everybody but me understood that she was trying to squeeze out the natural heirs, with Abu Adil's assistance. And Umm Saad was using the Phoenix File to blackmail Papa. Now I saw why he allowed her to remain in the house so long, and why he preferred that I dispose of her.

And ever since Friedlander Bey's divine finger first descended from the clouds to tap me so long ago, I'd been aimed toward lofty ends. Had I been cut out to be merely Papa's indispensable, reluctant assistant? Or had I been groomed all along to inherit the power and the wealth, every bit of it, along with the terrible life-and-death decisions Papa made every day?

How naive I'd been, to think that I might find a way to escape! I was more than just under Friedlander Bey's thumb; he owned me, and his indelible mark was written in my genetic material. My shoulders sagged as I realized that I would never be free, and that any hope of liberty had always been empty illusion.

"Why did you and my mother keep this secret from me?" I asked.

"You are not alone, my . . . son. As a young man, I fathered many children. When my own eldest son died, he was older than you are now, and he has been dead more than a century. I have dozens of grandchildren, one of whom is your mother. In your generation, I do not know how many descendants I can claim. It would not have been appropriate for you to feel unique, to use your relationship with me to further selfish ends. I needed to be sure that you were worthy, before I acknowledged you as my chosen one."

I wasn't as thrilled by that speech as he probably thought I should be. He sounded like a lunatic pretending to be God, passing on his blessing like a birthday present. Papa didn't want me to use my connection for selfish ends! Jeez, if that wasn't the height of irony!

"Yes, O Shaykh," I said. It didn't cost me anything to sound docile. Hell, he was going to have his skull carved in a few minutes. Still, I made no promises.

"Remember," he said softly, "there are many others who would take away your privileged position. You have scores of cousins who may someday do you harm."

Great. Something else to look forward to. "Then the computer records I searched—"

"Have been changed and changed again many times over the years." He smiled faintly. "You must learn not to put your faith in truth that has only electronic existence. Is it not our business, after all, to supply versions of that truth to the nations of the world? Have you not learned how supple truth can be?"

More questions occurred to me every second. "Then my father was truly Bernard Audran?"

"The Provengal sailor, yes."

I was relieved that I knew one thing for certain.

"Forgive my, my darling," murmured Papa. "I did not wish to reveal the Phoenix File to you, and that made it more difficult for you to deal with Umm Saad and Abu Adil."

I held his hand; it trembled in my grasp. "Don't worry, O Shaykh. It's almost over."

"Mr. Audran." I felt Dr. Yeniknani's large-knuckled hand on my shoulder. "We'll be taking your patron down to surgery now."

"What's wrong? What are you going to do?"

It was obvious that there wasn't time to go into a long explanation. "You were right about the tainted dates. Someone had been feeding him the poison for some time. It has severely impaired his medulla, the part of the brain that controls respiration, heartbeat, and wakefulness. It's been damaged to such an extent that, unless something is done very soon, he will fall into an irreversible coma."

My mouth was dry, and my heart was racing. "What are you going to do?" I asked.

Dr. Yeniknani looked down at his hands. "Dr. Lisan believes the only hope is a partial medullar transplant. We have been waiting for healthy tissue from a compatible donor."

"And today you've found it?" I wondered who on that goddamn Phoenix File had been sacrificed for this.

"I can't promise success, Mr. Audran. The operation has only been tried three or four times before, and never in this part of the world. But you must know that if any surgeon can offer you hope, it's Dr. Lisan. And of course, I will be attending. Your patron will have all the skill at our disposal, and all the prayers of his faithful friends."

I nodded dumbly. I looked up to see two male nurses lifting Friedlander Bey from his hospital bed onto a wheeled cart. I went to grasp his hand once more.

"Two things," he said in a husky whisper. "You have moved the policeman's widow into our home. When the four months of proper mourning are over, you must marry her."

"Marry her!" I was so startled, I forgot to be properly respectful.

"And when I recover from this illness—" He yawned, almost unable to keep his eyes open against the medication the nurses had given him. I lowered my head to catch his words. "When I am again well, we will go to Mecca."

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.

Chapter 20

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 abont 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 Marîd 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 Marîd. 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.