Kmuzu and I let him mourn her for a short while. “Saad, get up,” I said finally.
He looked up at me. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so much malignity in a person’s face. “I’ll kill you,” he said. “I promise you that. All of you.”
“Get up, Saad,” I said. I wished this hadn’t happened, but it was too late for regrets.
Kmuzu put his hand on Saad’s shoulder, but the boy shrugged it off. “You must listen to my master,” said Kmuzu.
“No,” said Saad. Then his hand flashed out quickly for his mother’s needle gun. The Stone stamped down on the boy’s forearm. Saad collapsed beside his mother, holding his arm and whimpering.
Kmuzu knelt and took the needle gun. He stood up again and gave the weapon to me. “What do you wish to do, yaa Sidi?” he asked.
“About the boy?” I looked at Saad thoughtfully. I knew that he bore me nothing but malice, but I only pitied him. He had been only a pawn in his mother’s bargain with Abu Adil, a dupe in her vicious scheme to usurp Friedlander Bey’s power. I didn’t expect that Saad could understand that, of course. To him, Umm Saad would always be a martyr and a victim of cruel injustice.
“What is to be done?” Kmuzu said, breaking in on my thoughts.
“Oh, just let him go. He’s certainly suffered enough.” Kmuzu stood aside, and Saad got to his feet, holding his bruised forearm close to his chest. “I’ll make all the proper preparations for your mother’s funeral,” I said.
Once again, his expression twisted in loathing. “You will not touch her!” he cried. “I will bury my mother.” He backed away from me and stumbled toward the door. When he reached the exit, he turned to face me. “If there are such things as curses in this world,” he uttered in a feverish voice, “I call them all down on you and your house. I will make you pay a hundred times for what you’ve done. I swear this three times, on the life of the Prophet Muhammad!” Then he fled the dining room.
“You have made a bitter enemy, yaa Sidi,” said Kmuzu.
“I know,” I said, “but I can’t worry about it.” I just shook my head sadly.
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.