When Gravity Fails (17 page)

Friedlander Bey frowned. “I am not convinced, my nephew. There isn’t the slightest connection between your Russian diplomat and my Devi. The assassination idea occurred to you only because the Russian worked in some political capacity. Devi had no idea of world affairs at all. She was of no help or hindrance to any party or movement. The James Bond theme merits further inspection, but the motives you suggest are without substance.”

“Do you have any ideas about either killer, O Shaykh?” I asked.

“Not yet,” he said, “but I have only just begun to collect information. That is why I wanted to discuss this situation with you. You should not think that my involvement is solely a matter of revenge. It is that, of course, but it is a great deal larger than that. To put it simply, I must protect my investments. I must demonstrate to my associates and my friends that I will not permit such a threat to their safety to continue. Otherwise I will begin to lose the support of the people who make up the foundation and framework of my power. Taken individually, these four murders are repellent but not unheard-of occurrences: murders take place every day in the city. Together, however, these four killings are an immediate challenge to my existence. Do you understand me, my nephew?”

He was making himself very clear. “Yes, O Shaykh,” I said. I waited to hear the suggestions Hassan said would be made.

There was a long pause while Friedlander Bey regarded me pensively. “You are very different from most of my friends in the Budayeen,” he said at last. “Almost everyone has had some modification made on his body.”

“If they can afford it,” I said, “I think they should have whatever mod they want. As for me, O Shaykh, my body has always been fine just the way it is. The only surgery I’ve ever had has been for therapeutic reasons. I am pleased with the form I was given by Allah.”

Papa nodded. “And your mind?” he asked.

“It runs a little slow sometimes,” I said, “but, on the whole, it’s served me well. I’ve never felt a desire to have my brain wired, if that’s what you mean.”

“Yet you take prodigious quantities of drugs. You did so in my presence last night.” I had nothing to say to that. “You are a proud man, my nephew. I’ve read a report about you that mentions this pride. You find excitement in contests of wit and will and physical prowess with people who have the advantage of modular personalities and other software add-ons. It is a dangerous diversion, but you seem to have emerged unscathed.”

A few painful memories flashed through my mind. “I’ve been scathed, O Shaykh, more than a few times.”

He laughed. “Even that has not prompted you to modify yourself. Your pride takes the form of presenting yourself—as the Christians say in some context—as being
in
the world but not
of
it.”

“Untempted by its treasures and untouched by its evils, that’s me.” My ironic tone was not lost on Papa.

“I would like you to help me, Marîd Audran,” he said. There it was, take it or leave it.

The way he put it, I was left in an extremely uncomfortable position: I could say, “Sure, I’ll help you,” and then I’d have compromised myself in precisely the way I swore I never would; or I could say, “No, I won’t help you,” and I’d have offended the most influential person in my world. I took a couple of long, slow breaths while I sorted out my answer. “O Shaykh,” I said at last, “your difficulties are the difficulties of everyone in the Budayeen; indeed, in the city. Certainly, anyone who cares about his own safety and happiness will help you. I will help you all that I can, but against the men who have murdered your friends, I doubt that I can be of much use.”

Papa stroked his cheek and smiled. “I understand that you have no wish to become one of my ‘associates.’ Be that as it may. You have my guarantee, my nephew, that if you agree to aid me in this matter, it will not mark you as one of ‘Papa’s men.’ Your pleasure is in your freedom and independence, and I would not take that from one who does me a great favor.”

I wondered if he was implying that he might take away the freedom from one who refused to perform the favor. It would be child’s play for Papa to steal my liberty; he could accomplish that by simply planting me forever, deep beneath the tender grass in the cemetery where the Street comes to its end.

Baraka:
an Arabic word that is very difficult to translate. It can mean magic or charisma or the special favor of God. Places can have it; shrines are visited and touched in the hope that some of the
baraka
will rub off. People can have
baraka;
the derwishes, in particular, believe that certain fortunate people are specially blessed by Allah, and are therefore worthy of singular respect in the community. Friedlander Bey had more
baraka
than all the stone shrines in the Maghrîb. I can’t say if it was
baraka
that made him what he was, or if he attained the
baraka
as he attained his position and influence. Whatever the explanation, it was very difficult to listen to him and deny him what he asked. “How can I help you?” I said. I felt hollow inside, as if I had made a great surrender.

“I want you to be the instrument of my vengeance, my nephew,” he said.

I was shocked. No one knew better than I how inadequate I was to the task he was giving me. I had tried to tell him that already, but he’d only brushed aside my objections as if they were just some form of false modesty. My mouth and throat were dry. “I have said that I will help you, but you ask too much of me. You have more capable people in your employ.”

“I have stronger men,” said Papa. “The two servants you met last night are stronger than you, but they lack intelligence. Hassan the Shiite has a certain shrewdness, but he is not otherwise a dangerous man. I have considered each of my friends, O my beloved nephew, and I have made this decision: none but you offers the essential combination of qualities I seek. Most important, I trust you. I cannot say the same of many of my associates; it is a sad thing to admit. I trust you because you do not care to rise in my esteem. You do not try to ingratiate yourself with me for your own ends. You are not a truckling leech, of which I have more than my share. For the important work we must do, I must have someone about whom I have no doubts; that is one of the reasons our meeting last night was so difficult for you. It was an examination of your inner worth. I knew when we parted that you were the man I sought.”

“You do me honor, O Shaykh, but I am afraid I do not share your confidence.”

He raised his right hand, and it trembled visibly. “I have not finished my speech, my nephew. There are further reasons why you must do as I ask, reasons that benefit you, not me. You tried to speak of your friend Nikki last night, and I would not permit it. I ask your forgiveness again. You were quite correct in your concern for her safety. I am certain that her disappearance was the work of one or the other of these murderers; perhaps she herself has already been slain, Allah grant that it not be true. I cannot say. Yet if there is any hope of finding her alive, it is in you. With my resources, together we will find the killers. Together we will deal with them, as the Wise Mention of God directs. We will prevent Nikki’s death if we can, and who can say how many other lives we may save? Are these not worthy goals? Can you still hesitate?”

It was all very flattering, I suppose; but I wished like hell that Papa had picked somebody else. Saied would have done a good job, especially with his ass-kicking moddy chipped in. There was nothing I could do now, though, except agree. “I will do my best for you, O Shaykh,” I said reluctantly, “but I do not abandon my doubts.”

“That is well,” said Friedlander Bey. “Your doubts will keep you alive longer.”

I really wished he hadn’t added that last word; he sounded as if I couldn’t survive, no matter what I did, but my doubts would keep me around to watch myself suffer. “It will be as Allah wills,” I said.

“May the blessing of Allah be on you. Now we must discuss your payment.”

That surprised me, too. “I had no thought of payment,” I said.

Papa acted as if he did not hear. “One must eat,” he said simply. “You shall be paid a hundred kiam a day until this affair is concluded.” Concluded is right: until either we put an end to the two murdering sons of bitches, or one of them put an end to me.

“I did not ask for such a wage,” I said. A hundred a day; well, Papa had said one must eat. I wondered what he thought I was accustomed to eating.

Again he ignored me. He gestured to the Stone That Speaks, who approached and handed Friedlander Bey an envelope. “Here is seven hundred kiam,” Papa said to me, “your pay for the first week.” He gave the envelope back to the Stone, who brought it to me.

If I took the envelope, it was a symbol of my complete acceptance of Friedlander Bey’s authority. There would be no turning back, no quitting, no ending but the ending. I looked at the white envelope in the sandstone-colored hand. My own hand rose a little, sank a little, rose again and took the money. “Thank you,” I said.

Friedlander Bey looked pleased. “I hope it brings you pleasure,” he said. It had damn well better; I was certainly going to earn every fuckin’ fîq of it.

“O Shaykh, what are your instructions?” I asked.

“First, my nephew, you must go to Lieutenant Okking and put yourself at his disposal. I will inform him that we will cooperate completely with the police department in this matter. There are circumstances that my associates can manage with greater efficiency than the police; I’m sure the lieutenant will acknowledge that. I think that a temporary alliance of my organization with his will best serve the needs of the community. He will give you all the information he has on the killings, a probable description of the one who cut the throats of Abdoulaye Abu-Zayd and Tamiko, and whatever else he has so far withheld. In return, you will assure him that we will keep the police informed of such facts as we uncover.”

“Lieutenant Okking is a good man,” I said, “but he cooperates only when he feels like it, or when it’s clearly to his advantage.”

Papa gave me a brief smile. “He will cooperate with you now, I will make sure of that. He will soon learn that it is, indeed, in his own best interest.” The old man would be as good as his word; if anyone could persuade Okking to help me, it was Friedlander Bey.

“And then, O Shaykh?”

He cocked his head and smiled again. For some reason I felt cold, as if a bitter wind had found its way into Papa’s fortress. “Do you foresee a time, my nephew,” he asked, “or can you imagine a circumstance, in which you would seek the modifications you have so far rejected?”

The icy wind blew more fiercely. “No, O Shaykh,” I said, “I can’t foresee such a time or imagine such a situation; that doesn’t mean that it may not happen. Perhaps sometime in the future I’ll have need to choose some modification.”

He nodded. “Tomorrow is Friday, and I observe the Sabbath. You will need time to think and plan. Monday is soon enough.”

“Soon enough? Soon enough for what?”

“To meet with my private surgeons,” he said simply.

“No,” I whispered.

Suddenly, Friedlander Bey ceased being the kindly uncle. He became, instantly, the commander of men’s allegiance, whose orders cannot be questioned. “You have accepted my coin, my nephew,” he said sternly. “You will do as I say. You cannot hope to succeed against our enemies unless your mind is improved. We know that at least one of the two has an electronically augmented brain. You must have the same, but to an even greater degree. My surgeons can give you advantages over the murderers.”

The two sandstone hands appeared on my shoulders, holding me firmly in place. Now, truly, there was no way out. “What sort of advantages?” I asked apprehensively. I began to feel the cold sweat of utter fear. I had avoided having my brain wired more out of profound dread than principle. The idea produced terror in me, amounting to an irrational, paralyzing phobia.

“The surgeons will explain it all to you,” said Papa.

“O Shaykh,” I said, my voice breaking, “I do not wish this.”

“Events have moved beyond your wishing,” he replied. “You will change your mind on Monday.”

No, I thought, it won’t be me; it will be Friedlander Bey and his surgeons who will change my mind.

10

“Lieutenant Okking’s out of his office at the moment,” said a uniformed officer. “Can I help you with something?”

“Will the lieutenant be back soon?” I asked. The clock above the officer’s desk said almost ten o’clock. I wondered how late Okking was going to work tonight; I had no desire to talk to Sergeant Hajjar, whatever his connection to Papa. I still didn’t trust him.

“The lieutenant said he’d be right back, he’s just gone downstairs for something.”

That made me feel better. “Is it all right if I wait in his office? We’re old friends.”

The cop looked at me dubiously. “Can I see some identification?” he asked. I gave him my Algerian passport; it’s expired, but it’s the only thing I own with my photograph on it. He punched my name into his computer, and a moment later my whole history began spilling across his screen. He must have decided that I was an upright citizen, because he gave me back my passport, stared up into my face for a moment, and said, “You and Lieutenant Okking go back a ways together.”

“It’s a long story, all right,” I said.

“He won’t be another ten minutes. You can take a seat in there.”

I thanked the cop and went into Okking’s office. It was true, I
had
spent a lot of time here. The lieutenant and I had formed a curious alliance, considering that we worked opposite sides of the legal fence. I sat in the chair beside Okking’s desk and waited. Ten minutes passed, and I began to get restless. I started looking at the papers piled in hefty stacks, trying to read them upside-down and sideways. His
Out
box was half-filled with envelopes, but there was even more work crammed into the
In
box. Okking earned whatever meager wages he got from the department. There was a large manila envelope on its way to a small-arms dealer in the Federated New England States of America; a handwritten envelope to some doctor in the city; a neatly addressed envelope to a firm called Universal Exports with an address near the waterfront—I wondered if it was one of the companies Hassan dealt with, or maybe it was one of Seipolt’s; and a heavily stuffed packet being sent to an office-supplies manufacturer in the Protectorate of Brabant.