“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.”