Florence of Arabia (24 page)

"More love first."

"We'll do it on the plane."

"Is it a nice plane? Is there a bed? I want to make
love all the way home. How did y
ou find me? I'm not leaving till you tell me."

"Could make you leave."

"I'll chain myself to this bed."

"Thought you'da had enough of chains by now."

"Tell."

Bobby looked at her, love-warm in bed,
the sheet draped over
her as if on a marble statue, h
e sighed, a gesture first experienced by humans a hundred thousand years ago when
the first man gave in to the fir
st woman.

"
Fetish
," he said.

"Anything, darling."

"No.
Fe
tish—the emir's guy. I got to him." "Got to him how?"

"He works for the French. I found that out and told him if he didn't tell me where they were holdin' you. I'd tell the emir. He coughed it u
p real quick. I got word to Bout
ros. He and I... That's how."

"How did you find out
Fetish
works for the French?"

"Can we talk about him on
the plane? The French girl in Um-beseir, Annabelle,
real dish, joined the harem just about the time of Maliq's religious conversion?
She works
for the French. I got to her."

"Got her or got
to
her?"

"Whatever."

Florence threw a pillow at him. "I'm sorry you had to go through such
hell
finding me."

The explosion knocked Bobby backward onto the bed. His instincts took over instantly, and he covered Florence's body with his. Half the ceiling came down on them.

Florence's face was pressed against his chest. She could feel his heart pounding.

"Get dressed now," he said. He slipped on his trousers, took his pistol and approached the balcony, crouching. The flames from the street below reflected on his bare skin.

"Looks like your revolution's started. Flo."

CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE

Florence
crawled to the balcony and peered over the rail with Bobby
"Car bomb." Bobby said. "Big mother."

"L
aila." Florence said. She dialed on Bobby's cell. The building shook From another explosion, smaller, more dist
ant. That was Followed by a half
-dozen more around the city.
Boom. boom. boom, boom
—nearly identical intervals.

"It's coordinated." Bobby said.

L
aila picked up. "Florence? Something'
s happening. Thank God I got H
amdul out."

"Are you all right?"

"Just scratched up.
The windows blew out. We're on fire. Needless to say,
no one is trying to put it out. They're too busy running around shrieking uselessly. Where are you? Your place?"

"Yes. There are explosions all over the city. Bobby says it's coordinated."

"Get out of there, fast. There's shooting
on the grounds. Wait. Hold on, I
hear something."

Florence heard rotor blades.

"It's the helicopter," Laila said. "The one you gave him. Nice of him to tell me we're leaving."

"You better go." Florence said. The sound of the rotor blades became louder over the phone.

"Florence!" Laila sounded stunned. "I'm here."

"They're leavi
ng—they've lifted off! I can see him. He's sitt
ing next to the pilot!" The rotor blades grew louder. "That pig! That fat, adulterous, odious, cowardly—"

There was an explosion.

"Laila? Laila?
Laila?"

"What's going on?" Bobby said.

"Laila!"

Bobby took the phone from Florence and listened. He disconnected. "Time to go." He handed her the orange
abaaya
that had been his disguise at
the rally
. "Put this on."

She looked at the garment.

"Flo, it's not a fashion statement."

She put it on slowly. It smelled of him. Bob
by yanked the sheet off the bed,
took out his spring knife and cut a slit in it and threw it over his head. "Trick or treat." he said. "Come on."

They took the stairs instead of the elevator. It was eight floors down to the lobby. He opened the door cautiously and looked into the lobby. Florence leaned back into the concrete wall, trying to get her heart to stop pounding so hard. She heard a noise.

Four men banged through the lobby door. They wore Western clothing. They spoke. Florence caught the accent.

They spoke loudly, in unafraid tones, and carried drawn pistols. They made
for the elevator. Bobby slowly cl
osed the door and held the bar handle of the fire door,
manually
locking it.

"Wasabi," Florence whispered t
o Bobby. He looked questioningly at her. "he said h
lonek' instead of 'shlonek.' Trust me—they're Wasabi. Probablv
mukfelleen."

They
went down to the basement and found a rear stairwell. There was a small wire-mesh window in it. With his hand already on the handle, Bobby looked through the window, then quickly darted to the side and threw the bolt home, locking the door just as someone tried to open it from the other side.

They retreated back up to the second floor and emerged into the corridor.

There was a door at the far end that opened onto a small balcony above an alley. They stood on the balcony and looked down. There was a large Dumpster filled with garbage bags.

"C
an you do this?" Bobby said. Florence nodded. It was a twenty-foot drop into the Dumpster.

They landed to a commotion of squeaks. Florence felt things squirming under her. Rats. She stilled a cry. Bobby
beat at them with his lists. H
e pulled garbage bags over the two of them until they were concealed. Florence lay there, rodents stirring under her. The garbage had been there for days, putrefying in 110-degree heal. Bobby reached over and held her hand. He whispered. "Best way to get to know a country."

The balcony door above them banged open. They heard two voices. Florence held her breath. The doo
r closed. It was quiet again, they
lay there for ten minutes. Bobby whispere
d. "You want dessert, or shall I
get the check?"

T
hev hauled themselves out of the Dumpster and made their way toward the waterfront, trying to stay in the shadows. The city was alive with the noise of explosions and small-arms fire. Bobby and Florence came to a grassy public square and ducked into a clump of trees at the corner.

"If we get stopped." Bobby said, "act hysterical, like you're scared shitless."

"Not a problem. Where are we going?"

Bobby thought. "Airport's out. The harbor."

"Is your water taxi operating?"

"You bet. In an hour, we'll be in our own submarine, drinking Fr
ench champagne and screw
in' our brains out."

She didn't believe him, and then it hit her—he'd c
ome back for her on his own. H
e was operating solo.

"We'll head for the water." he said. "Where
there's water, there's boats; w
here there's boats, there's gettin' the hell out."

"You came back on your own, didn't you?"

"We're gonna be fine. I've been through
more Middle Fast coups than you’v
e had hot breakfasts."

They came to a corner. Bobby
looked around it and jerked his head back. The street was blocked by an armored personnel carrier with a mounted machine gun. The markings on it were
Matar
i.

They moved along Soames Street, parallel to the waterfront. Bobby again peered around a corner and motioned her back. All the streets leading to the harbor were blocked.

"They don't appear to be encouragin' visits to the waterfront tonight." he said. "Time to find out what's goin' on."

They continued along Soames until they came to an appliance store with television sets and microwave ovens in the window.

"Keep an eye out." Bobby produced a tool and fiddled with the lock. It clicked open. He pushed the door open gently, listening for an alarm to go off. They entered.

Against a wall wer
e fifty or so televisions. Bobby
went behind the counter and began flipping switches. A
ll fifty sets flicked on,
bathing them in blue screen glow.

"Be a good place to watch the Super Bowl." Bobby said. He began flicking several remote controls at once, causing blizzards of pixels.

"Channel Forty-five." she said. The TV
Matar channel.

H
e flicked. Normally, at this hour, TV
Matar
would be showing
Mukfellahs,
the situation comedy
about the inept crew of religious police. Instead, there was a
grim-faced announcer, a man, sit
ting behind the news desk. They knew instantly what it meant. The announcer was dressed in the clerical garb of a Matari moolah, and he was speaking Matari, not English. The first words Florence could make out were "criminal." then "infidel," then "provisional," followed by "Imam Maliq" followed by "God be praised." None of these buzzwords was reassuring. Again she was struck by how incongruently malevolent "Allah the merciful, the compassionate" could be made to sound coming from human lips. Then she heard her own name mentioned, and hot as she was under the
abaaya,
Florence felt a chill. She learned fro
m the television that she was at
large somewhere in the city, that all decent citizens should be vigilant, for she was dangerous, an enemy, an agent of Satan.

Bobby was standing by the door with his pistol drawn, in the event the alarm was silent and an enraged Mr. Mohammed Dera'a, whose name appeared on the sign above, was on his way to reassert proprietorship of his goods.

The moolah continued his announcements. The holy soil of Matar was— praise God—under new rule. The decades of corruption and decadence so vile in the eyes of God the merciful, the compassionate, the wise, were over. A new dawn was proclaimed (though technically, it was only eight
p.m
.). A revolutionary Islamic republic was proclaimed. Praise
God.
Citizens should remain indoors until the last vestiges of the former regime could be "cleansed"— another sunny word made sinister.

Up on the screen came Gazzy's face. He was in sunglasses, grinning and waving at the photographer. The picture had been taken in what newspaper captions like to call "happier times."

"The imam makes the following announcement. The emir Gazzir Bin Haz. blasphemer, betrayer and tool of imperialist infidels, is dead.
Allahu akbar.
He was fleeing the royal palace like a coward when his American-provided helicopter stuck a tree and crashed. The former sheika ..."

Florence held her breath.

"... is in custody. Already she is repenting of her crimes against God the mighty and the people of Matar. Long life and blessings upon our glorious beloved imam M
aliq, beloved of God, sent by God, savior of Matar’
s holy soil."

Florence began dialing.

"What you doing?"

"It's the Middle Fast. I'm trading."

Bobby sighed. "Baby, you're not bein' part of the
solution."

She dialed the main palace number. A voice answered, authoritative.

"This is F
lorence. Do you understand who I
am?"

"Yes."

"I
wish to speak with the imam Maliq." "Impossible."

"I
have something he wants very badly."

"Speak."

"I will convey that to the imam," she said sharply. "Put him on the telephone. Do it now, or you will feel his anger upon your back." In moments of drama. Arabic tended toward the archaic.

Bobby mouthed the words: "They're tracing the call."

Florence paced back and forth in front of the TV screens.

"Flo." Bobby hissed. "What the fuck you doin'?"

"I'm responsible."

"Aw, jeez, dammit, girl!" H
e banged his hand against the glass door. "You're
always
responsible! You want to be a martyr? Why don't you just strap on some explosives and go blow up a damn bus!"

"Fuck you."

"This is the imam Maliq." said a startled voice, "and fuck
you,
madame!"