“There isn’t time to get him a little gift, Hassan.”
He chuckled. “Your news will be gift enough. Go in peace, Audran.”
I didn’t say anything, but broke the connection. I resettled my zipper bag on my shoulder and walked toward my old apartment building. I would meet with Papa, and then I would hide in Ishak Jarir’s closet. The bright side was that Khan was now out of the picture. Khan had been the only one of the two murderers who’d shown any desire to eliminate me. That meant the other one probably felt like letting me live. At least, I hoped so.
While I waited for Papa’s limo to come, I thought about my battle with Khan. I hated the man violently — all I had to do was call to mind the horror of Selima’s mutilated corpse, the revulsion I had felt while stumbling upon the dismembered bodies at Seipolt’s house. First he had killed Bogatyrev, Nikki’s own uncle who wanted her dead. Nikki was the key; all the other homicides were part of the frantic coverup that was supposed to keep the Russian scandal secret. I suppose it worked — oh, a lot of people here in the city knew about it, but without a live crown prince to embarrass the monarchy, there was no scandal back in White Russia. King Vyacheslav was safe on his throne, the royalists had won. In fact, with some clever and careful work on their part, they could use Nikki’s murder to strengthen their grip on the unstable nation.
I didn’t care about any of that. Following the brawl with Khan, I’d let him live — for a little while. He had a date now with the headsman in the courtyard of the Shimaal Mosque. Let him relive his brutalities in terror of Allah in the meantime.
The limo arrived and carried me to Friedlander Bey’s estate. The butler escorted me to the same waiting room I’d seen twice before. I waited for Papa to complete his prayers. Friedlander Bey didn’t make a great show of his devotion, which in a way made it all the more remarkable. Sometimes his belief shamed me; on those occasions I called up memories of the cruelties and crimes he was responsible for. I was only fooling myself; Allah knows none of us is perfect. I’m sure Friedlander Bey had no such illusions about himself. At least he asked his God to forgive him. Papa had explained it to me once before: he had to take care of a great number of relatives and associates, and sometimes me only way to protect them was to be unduly hard on outsiders. In that light, he was a great leader and a stern but loving father to his people. I, on the other hand, was a nobody who did a lot of illicit things myself, to no one’s benefit; and I didn’t even have the saving grace to beg Allah’s pardon.
At last one of the two huge men who guarded Papa motioned to me. I entered the inner office; Friedlander Bey was waiting for me, seated on his antique lacquered divan. “Once again you do me great honor,” he said. He indicated that I should be seated across the table from him, on the other divan.
“It is my honor to wish you good evening,” I said.
“Will you take a morsel of bread with me?”
“You are most generous, O Shaykh,” I said. I didn’t feel wary or self-conscious, as I had on my previous meetings with Papa. After all, I had done the impossible for him. I had to keep reminding myself that the great man was now in my debt.
The servants brought the first course of the meal, and Friedlander Bey steered the conversation from one trivial subject to another. We sampled a little of many different dishes, everything succulently prepared and fragrant; I decided to chip out the hunger-override daddy, and when I did, I realized just how hungry I was. I was able to do justice to Papa’s banquet. I wasn’t, however, ready to pop the other daddies out. Not quite yet.
The servants brought platters of lamb, chicken, beef, and fish, served with delicately seasoned vegetables and savory rice. We ended with a selection of fresh fruit and cheeses; when all the dishes were cleared away, Papa and I relaxed with strong coffee flavored with spices.
“May your table last forever, O Shaykh,” I said. “That was the finest meal I’ve ever enjoyed.”
He was pleased. “I give thanks to God it was to your liking. Will you drink some more coffee?”
“Yes, thank you, O Shaykh.”
The servants were gone and so, too, were the Stones Who Speak. Friedlander Bey poured my coffee himself, a gesture of sincere respect. “You must agree now that my plans for you were all in order,” he said softly.
“Yes, O Shaykh. I am grateful.”
He waved that aside. “It is we, the city and myself, who are grateful to you, my son. Now we must speak of the future.”
“Forgive me, O Shaykh, but we cannot safely think of the future until we are secure in the present. One of the murderers who menaced us has been accounted for, but there is yet another at large. That evil one may have returned to his homeland, it is true; it is some time now since he struck down his victims. Yet it would be prudent for us to consider the possibility that he is still in the city. We would be well advised to learn his identity and his whereabouts.”
The old man frowned and pulled at his gray cheek. “O my son, you alone believe in the existence of this other assassin. I do not see why the man who was James Bond, who was also Xarghis Khan, could not also be the torturer who slew Abdoulaye in so unspeakable a manner. You mentioned the many personality modules Khan had in his possession. Could not one of them make him the demon who also murdered the Crown Prince Nikolai Konstantin?”
What did I have to do to persuade these people? “O Shaykh,” I said, “your theory requires that one man was working for both the fascist-communist alliance and the Byelorussian loyalists. He would, in effect, be neutralizing himself at every turn. It would postpone the outcome, which might be to his advantage although I don’t understand how; and he would be able to report positive results to both sides for a time. Yet if all that were true, how would he resolve the situation? He would finally be rewarded by one side and punished by the other. It’s foolish to think that one man might simultaneously be protecting Nikki and trying to murder her. In addition, the police examiner determined that the man who killed Tami, Abdoulaye, and Nikki was shorter and heavier than Khan, with thick, stubby fingers.”
Friedlander Bey’s face flickered with a weak smile. “Your vision, respected one, is acute but limited in scope. I myself have sometimes found it worthwhile to support both sides of a quarrel. What else can one do when one’s beloved friends dispute a matter?”
“With your forgiveness, O Shaykh, I point out that we are speaking of many cold-blooded homicides, not quarrels or disputes. And neither the Germans nor the Russians are our beloved friends. Their internal bickerings are of no importance to us here in the city.”
Papa shook his head. “Limited scope,” he repeated softly. “When the infidel lands of the world break apart, we are revealed in our strength. When the great Shaitans, the United States and the Soviet Union, each fell into separate groups of states, it was a token from Allah.”
“A token?” I asked, wondering what all this had to do with Nikki and the wires in my skull and the poor, forgotten people of the Budayeen.
Friedlander Bey’s brows drew together, and he looked suddenly like a desert warrior, like the mighty chieftains who had come before him, all wielding the irresistible Sword of the Prophet. “Jihad,” he murmured.
Jihad. Holy war.
I felt a prickle on my skin, and the blood roared in my ears. Now that the once-great nations were growing helpless in their poverty and dissension, it was time for Islam to complete the conquest that had begun so many centuries before. Papa’s expression was very much like the look I had seen in the eyes of Xarghis Khan.
“It is what pleases Allah,” I said. Friedlander Bey let out his breath and gave me a benevolent, approving smile. I was humoring the man. He was more dangerous now than I ever suspected. He had almost dictatorial power in the city; that, coupled with his great age and this delusion, made me walk carefully in his presence.