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.