He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember anything.
Time went by, and he might have been unconscious. He had the same feeling one has on waking from a particularly vivid dream, when the waking world and the dream are superimposed for a moment, when aspects of one distort images of the other, and one must make an effort to sort them and decide which shall have precedence.
How could he explain being alone and bound like this? He wasn’t afraid of the hurting, but he was afraid he wasn’t equal to the task of understanding his situation. There was the low hum of a fan above his head, and a faint spicy smell in the air. His body twisted a little on the rope, and he felt another slash of pain. He was bothered more by the notion that he appeared to be involved in a terrible drama and had no sense at all of its significance. “Praise be to Allah, Lord of the Worlds,” he whispered, “the Beneficent, the Merciful. Owner of the Day of Judgment. Thee alone we worship. Thee alone we ask for help”
Time passed. The suffering grew. Finally, he did not remember enough even to wince or writhe. Sights and sounds played through his numbed senses upon his drowsing mind. He was beyond evaluating or reacting, but he was not yet quite dead. Someone spoke to him, but he did not respond.
“How’s that?”
Let me tell you, it was horrible. All of a sudden, understanding poured back into my consciousness. Every bit of pain that had been held at bay suddenly returned with a vengeance. I must have whimpered, because he kept saying “It’s all right, it’s all right.”
I looked up. It was Saied. “Hey,” I said. It was all I could manage.
“It’s all right,” he told me again. I didn’t know if I could believe him. He looked pretty worried.
I was lying in an alley between some rundown, abandoned tenement buildings. I didn’t know how I’d gotten there. At the moment, I didn’t care.
“These yours?” he said. He was folding a small handful of daddies and three moddies.
One of them was Rex and one was the gray D Syndrome moddy. I almost wept when I recognized the pain-blocker daddy. “Gimme,” I said. My hands shook as I reached up and chipped it in. Almost instantly I felt great again, although I knew I still had terrible lacerations and at least a broken collarbone. The daddy worked faster than even a ton of Sonneine. “You got to tell me what you’re doing here,” I said. I sat up, filled with the illusion of health and well-being.
“I came after you. Wanted to make sure you didn’t get into any trouble or anything. The guard at the gate knows me, and so does Kamal. I went into the house and saw what they were doing to you, then I waited till they dragged you out. They must’ve thought you were dead, or else they don’t care if you recover or not. I grabbed up the hardware and followed. They dumped you in this stinking alley, and I hid around the corner till they left.”
I put my hand on his shoulders. “Thanks,” I said.
“Hey,” said the Half-Hajj with a loopy grin, “no thanks are needed. Muslim brothers and all that, right?”
I didn’t want to argue with him. I picked up the third moddy he’d found. “What’s this?” I asked.
“You don’t know? It’s not one of yours?”
I shook my head. Saied took the moddy from me, reached up, and chipped it in. A moment later his expression changed. He looked awed. “May my father’s balls burn in Hell!” he said. “It’s Abu Adil.”
The Half-Hajj insisted on going with me to find the building where Paul Jawarski was hiding out. “You’re a wreck,” he told me, shaking his head. “You pop that daddy, you’ll realize what bad shape you’re in. You should go to the hospital.”
“I just got out of the hospital,” I said.
“Well, obviously it didn’t take. You got to go back again.”
“Fine, I’ll go when this business with Jawarski’s all over. I’ll keep the daddy in till then. And I’ll probably need Rex.”
Saied squinted at me. “You need a lot more than Rex. You need half a dozen of your cop buddies.”
I laughed bitterly. “I don’t think they’d show up. I don’t think Hajjar would even send them.”
We were making our way slowly along Hamidiyya’s main north-south avenue. “What do you mean?” asked Saied. “You think Hajjar wants to pull off Jawarski’s capture himself? Get himself a commendation and a medal?”
We turned down a narrow trash-choked alley and found the rear of the building we were looking for. “Shaknahyi had the idea that he’d been set up,” I said. “He thought maybe Jawarski was working for Hajjar.”
“I thought Jawarski was working for Shaykh Reda.”
I shrugged. Without the pain-blocker, that would have been excruciatingly painful. “Everybody we know moonlights. Why should Jawarski be any different?”
“No reason, I guess,” said the Half-Hajj. “Now, you want me to go in with you?”
“No thanks, Saied. I want you to stay down here and guard this back entrance. I’m going upstairs and talk with Morgan. I want to be alone with Jawarski. I’m gonna send Morgan down to watch the front.”
Saied looked worried. “I don’t think that’s smart, Maghrebi. Jawarski’s a clever guy, and he don’t mind killing people. You’re not in any condition to wrestle with him.”
“I won’t have to.” I reached up and chipped in Rex. I took my static pistol out of my pocket.
“Well, what you gonna do? If Hajjar’s just gonna let Jawarski go free—”
“I’m going over Hajjar’s head,” I said. I was determined that Jawarski wasn’t going to escape justice. “I’m gonna call the captain and the police superintendent and the news media. They can’t all be crooked.”
“I don’t see why not,” said the Half-Hajj. “But you’re probably right. Remember, we’ll be right down here if you need help. Jawarski won’t get away this time.”
I grinned at him. “Bet your ass he won’t.” I moved past him into the tenement building. I was in a cool, dark hallway that led to a flight of stairs. There was the usual dank, musty smell of an abandoned building. My feet scattered bits of rubble as I climbed up to the third floor. “Morgan?” I called. He probably had a gun in his hand, and I didn’t want to surprise him.
“Is that you, man? You sure took long enough getting here.”
I arrived at the landing where he was sitting. “Sorry,” I said, “I ran into a little trouble.”
His eyes got big when he saw how torn and hurt I was. “Looks like you already ran into as much as you can handle today, man.”
“I’m fine, Morgan.” I took five hundred kiam out of my jeans and paid him the rest of his money. “Now, go keep an eye on the street entrance. I’ll call if I need help.”
The blond American started downstairs. “You need help,” he said dubiously, “it’ll be too late by the time you shout.”
The daddy had me feeling no pain, and Rex made me think I was equal to any challenge Jawarski might present. I checked the charge in my static pistol, then rapped on the apartment door. “Jawarski,” I shouted, “this is Marid Audran. Jirji Shaknahyi was my partner. I’m here to take you in for his murder.”
I didn’t have to wait long. Jawarski opened the door, laughing. He was holding a black .45 caliber automatic pistol. “Stupid son of a bitch, ain’t you?” he said. He stood back so I could get by.
I made sure he saw my weapon as I went past him, but he was so sure of himself that he didn’t act the least bit concerned. I sat down on a torn couch opposite the door. Jawarski dropped into an armchair covered in blood-gained floral material. I was shocked by how young he was. I was surprised to see that he was at least five years younger than me.
“Ever hear what Islamic law does to murderers?” I asked him. We were holding our guns on each other, but Jawarski seemed almost nonchalant.