“I was just thinking,” I said slowly. “This is Abu Adil’s territory. It doesn’t look he does all that much for these people, so why do they stay loyal to him?”
Shaknahyi answered me with another question. “Why do you stay loyal to Friedlander Bey?”
One good reason was that Papa’d had the punishment center of my brain wired when the rest of the work was done, and that he could stimulate it any time he wanted. Instead, I said, “It’s not a bad life. And I guess I’m just afraid of him.”
“Same goes for these poor fellahin. They live in terror of Abu Adil, and he tosses just enough their way to keep them from starving to death. I just wonder how people like Friedlander Bey and Abu Adil get that kind of power in the first place.”
I watched the slums pass by beyond the windshield. “How do you think Papa makes his money?” I asked.
Shaknahyi shrugged. “He’s got a thousand cheap hustlers out there, all turning over big chunks of their earnings for the right to live in peace.”
I shook my head. “That’s only what you see going on in the Budayeen. Probably seems like vice and corruption are Friedlander Bey’s main business in life. I’ve lived in his house for months now, and I’ve learned better. The money that comes from vice is just pocket change to Papa. Counts for maybe five percent of his annual income. He’s got a much bigger concern, and Reda Abu Adil is in the same business. They sell order.”
“They sell what?”
“Order. Continuity. Government.”
“How?”
“Look, half the countries in the world have split up and recombined again until it’s almost impossible to know who owns what and who lives where and who owes taxes to whom.”
“Like what’s happening right now in Anatolia,” said Shaknahyi.
“Right,” I said. “The people in Anatolia, when their ancestors lived there it was called Turkey. Before that it was the Ottoman Empire, and before that it was Anatolia again. Right now it looks like Anatolia is breaking up into Galatia, Lydia, Cappadocia, Nicaea, and Asian Byzantium. One democracy, one emirate, one people’s republic, one fascist dictatorship, and one constitutional monarchy. There’s got to be somebody who’s staying on top of it all, keeping the records straight.”
“Maybe, but it sounds like a tough job.”
“Yeah, but whoever does it ends up the real ruler of the place. He’ll have the real power, because all the little states will need his help to keep from collapsing.”
“It makes a weird kind of sense. And you’re telling me that’s what Friedlander Bey’s racket is?”
“It’s a service,” I said. “An important service. And there are lots of ways for him to exploit the situation.”
“Yeah, you right,” he said admiringly. We turned a corner, and there was a long, high wall made of dark brown bricks. This was Reda Abu Adil’s estate. It looked like it was every bit as huge as Papa’s. As we stopped at the guarded gate, the luxuriousness of the main house seemed even grander contrasted to the ghastly neighborhood that surrounded it.
Shaknahyi presented our credentials to the guard. “We’re here to see Shaykh Reda,” he said. The guard picked up a phone and spoke to someone. After a moment, he let us continue.
“A century or more ago,” Shaknahyi said thoughtfully, “crime bosses had these big illicit schemes to make money. Sometimes they also operated small legal businesses for practical reasons, like laundering their money.”
“Yeah? So?” I said.
“Look at it: You say Reda Abu Adil and Friedlander Bey are two of the most powerful men in the world, as ‘consultants’ to foreign states. That’s entirely legitimate. Their criminal connections are much less important. They just provide livelihoods for the old men’s dependents and associates. Things have gotten turned around ass-back-wards.”
“That’s progress,” I said. Shaknahyi just shook his head.
We got out of the patrol car, into the warm afternoon sunshine. The grounds in front of Abu Adil’s house had been carefully landscaped. The fragrance of roses was in the air, and the strong, pleasant scent of lemons. There were cages of songbirds on either side of an ancient stone fountain, and the warbling music filled the afternoon with a languorous peace. We went up the ceramic-tiled path to the mansion’s geometrically carved front door. A servant had already opened it and was waiting for us to explain our business.
“I’m Officer Shaknahyi and this is Marid Audran. We’ve come to see Shaykh Reda.”
The servant nodded but said nothing. We followed him into the house, and he closed the heavy wooden door behind us. Sunlight streamed in from latticed windows high over our heads. From far away I heard the sound of someone playing a piano. I could smell lamb roasting and coffee brewing. The squalor only a stone’s throw away had been completely shut out. The house was a self-contained little world, and I’m sure that’s just as Abu Adil intended it.
We were led directly into Abu Adil’s presence. I couldn’t even get in to see Friedlander Bey that quickly.
Reda Abu Adil was a large, plump old man. He was like Papa in that it was impossible to guess just how old he might be. I knew for a fact that he was at least a hundred twenty-five. It wouldn’t surprise me to learn that he was just as old as Friedlander Bey. He was wearing a loose white robe and no jewelry. He had a carefully trimmed white beard and mustache and thick white hair, out of which poked a dove-gray moddy with two daddies snapped in. I was expert enough to notice that Abu Adil did not have a protruding plug, as I had; his hardware chipped into a corymbic socket.
Abu Adil reclined on a hospital bed that had been elevated so that he could see us comfortably as we spoke. He was covered by an expensive hand-embroidered blanket. His gnarled hands lay outside the cover, flat on either side of his body. His eyes were heavy-lidded, as if he were drugged or desperately sleepy. He grimaced and groaned frequently while we stood there. We waited for him to say something.
He did not. Instead, a younger man standing beside the hospital bed spoke up. “Shaykh Reda welcomes you to his home. My name is Umar Abdul-Qawy. You may address Shaykh Reda through me.”
This Umar person was about fifty years old. He had bright, mistrustful eyes and a sour expression that looked like it never changed. He too looked well fed, and he was dressed in an impressive gold-colored robe and metallic blue caftan. He wore nothing on his head and, like his master, a moddy divided his thinning hair. I disliked him from the getgo.
It was clear to me that I was facing my opposite number. Umar Abdul-Qawy did for Abu Adil what I did for Friedlander Bey, although I’m sure he’d been at it longer and was more intimate with the inner workings of his master’s empire. “If this is a bad time,” I said, “we can come back again.”
“This is a bad time,” said Umar. “Shaykh Reda suffers the torments of terminal cancer. You see, then, that another time would not necessarily be better.”
“We pray for his well-being,” I said.
A tiny smile quirked the edge of Abu Adil’s lips. “Allah yisallimak,” said Umar. “God bless you. Now, what has brought you to us this afternoon?”
This was inexcusably blunt. In the Muslim world, you don’t inquire after a visitor’s business. Custom further requires that the laws of hospitality be observed, if only minimally. I’d expected to be served coffee, if not offered a meal as well. I looked at Shaknahyi.
It didn’t seem to bother him. “What dealings does Shaykh Reda have with Friedlander Bey?”
That seemed to startle Umar. “Why, none at all,” he said, spreading his hands. Abu Adil gave a long, pain-filled moan and closed his eyes tightly. Umar didn’t even turn in his direction.
“Then Shaykh Reda does not communicate at all with him?” Shaknahyi asked.
“Not at all. Friedlander Bey is a great and influential man, but his interests lie in a distant part of the city. The two shaykhs have never discussed anything of a business nature. Their concerns do not meet at any point.”