Florence of Arabia (33 page)

George said. "We're not going to sit on our hands while you sip ape
ritifs with the head of the Onz
ieme Bureau. And frankly, I think you're more full of shit than a Strasbourg goose."

Uncle Sam
said quietly, coolly. "You don’t
rea
lly have much choice in the matt
er, do you now. George?"

"Is Untcl
e threatening?"

"Uncl
e may not
have as much grease as he did
before his niece and nephews fucked things up seven ways from Sunday, but he is not without resources." Untie Sam stood. "You fellows are in receipt of two million dollars each. In your personal bank accounts. Can you produce 1099 forms for those funds? I guess not. Did you happen to note the origin of the wire transfers?"

"Third Bank of Bangor."

"Ve
ry good. And Third Bank of Bangor, as any wet-behind-the-ears FBI ro
okie investigator will tell you,
is a shell fo
r Banc Mercantil de Grand Comore
—in Moroni, that would be the capital city of the Comoro Islands, not to be confused with the angel Moroni. And who owns the Ba
nc Mercantil? Sheik Adman Ifkir, Third cousin, on the Yemeni mother's side
of... guesses, anyone?"

"Osama bin Laden." George sighed. "What?" Rick said.

"Gold star for George." Uncle Sam applauded noiselessly. "So it would appear that you two are in receipt of funds from a bank controlled In Al Qaeda. Won't that be fun explaining at your arraignment for treason? But I'm sure there are lots of lawyers here in town who woul
d be happy to represent you for,
say, six hun
dred dollars an hour. Let's see,
two million dollars divided by six hundred—that might see you through the first year of leg
al bills. But heavens, what am I
thinking? The government will have
confiscated
the money. Dear, dear, dear."

"
You're a real prick, aren't you,
Sam?" Rick said.

"You should see
the people I report to." Uncle Sam said as he went through
the door. "Definitely, a new coffee-m
aker."

BACK IN HER CELL, Florence had passed the fretful hours waiting for the sound of the door being unlocked and the remains of her lover to be tossed in. followed by the sound of
the door being welded shut. Immurat
ion. she'd had time to reflect, was the punishment meted out in Rome to vestal virgins whose chastity had been compromised. Though she could not remember whether they had been entombed alive with the corpses of their paramours.

But as the hours passed, nothing happened. She began to hope that it had all been some kind of bluff to keep her off balance—either that or just for kicks. At some point in the afternoon, her hands had started trembling uncontrollably.

As she was thus reflecting, the lig
hts in Florence's cell went out,
plunging her into complete darkness. A few minutes passed, during which she could hear her own breathing distinctly. She struggled against the temptation to cry out for a guard. An electrical failure? Prelude to a rescue? She was pondering this last possibility when she heard the lock mechanism on the door. She felt the outward suck of air as the door opened, and in the next instant, she
was
knocked backward by the force of a human body, inert and rank with the after-smell of explosive, being hurled into the cell.

CHAPTER
THIRTY

G
reatness,
you
honor me with this audience. Emir,
you have lost weight! You
look marvelous!"

Maliq was in no mood for Delame-Noir's triple-cream pleasantries. "The burdens of office. One yearns for the simpler life of the racetrack."

"Yes, of course, but you must
eat,
Great One. You will waste away to nothing. Was it not your great-great-great-great-uncle on your maternal
side, the illustrious sharif Ehem al-Gheik,
who received in annual tribut
e from his subjects in the Wazi Bikkini his weight in T
arfa pearls?"

"Yes, yes,
yes. So, you wanted
t
o see me?"

"I will send you my own chef, h
e
was for many years al Taillevent
. His Boudin
de
Homard Breton au F
enouil is not to
believe.
It is not blasphemy to say it is to taste paradise itself."

"I cannot have a French chef. Dominique."

"But why not?"

"I'm the
imam.
How would it
look? I mean, really." "I have known many well-fed imams in my time."

"I'm meeting with t
h
e mullahs in fifteen minutes. It never ends. What— you wanted t
o see me?"

"I regret, yes. I suspect my imam knows the reason."

"1 told you. Dominique, it's out of my hands. It's a religious matter now."

"Yes. and you are the imam." "It's also a security mailer." "And you are the emir."

"It's also a tribal
mutter—matter—isn't it?" Maliq said petulantly. " Tribal'? In what way?"

"One of the men sh
e killed in the escape was a H
azi Agem." "Yes. So?"

"You're
the historian." Maliq said.

"I how to your superior knowledge. Educate me on this tribal matter."" "For a hundred years, there has been a blood fe
ud between my line, the Beni H
arish. and t
he H
azi Agem. So you see?" "Frankly, I do not."

"I'm in a delicate position. Most delicate."

Delame-Noir's hooded eyes blinked like a falcon's. His lips pouted with malevolenc
e. I le was a sophisticated man,
and he was tired of playing with this gelatin-brained idiot whom he had, in a moment of weakness (and perhaps, he admitted, pride), decided to install.

"Al
ors.
Maliq, you are the grand sharif of th
e Tribal Council. I don't mean to insult But why,
mon vieux,
do you waste my time telling me these nonsenses?"

It had been a while since anyone had addressed Maliq as "buddy" or accused him of speaking rubbish. Alas, how quickly we become
hostage to the kowtow. But tempted as he was to fl
ick his
aasa
at the frenchman. Maliq refrained. He refrained for the simple reason that he was terrified of Delame-Noir.

Delame-Noir had ordered more assassinations in his day than llam
as and Kim Jong II combined. His legend was long and dark. It
was he who had personally directed the sinking of the
Whalepeace,
the environmental vessel that had been protesting France's nuclear testing in Polynesia. Only Allah Himself knew what tentacles this eminence noir of a spymaster had throughout
Matar
.

"Understood,
mon vieux."
Maliq said pointedly, "but if you don't want to waste my tim
e or your t
ime, why don't you go to Kaffa and explain it to Prince Bawad?
h
e's
the one who's demanding this woman's head. She apparently did something to annoy him back in Washington, something to do with one of his wives. You see my predicament?"

"Look,
Maliq. you don't want to b
e seen as a Wasabi puppet, do you?" "No more than I do as a French puppet."

"Sire." Delame-Noir said, "ho
w have I deserved this insult? I
spend all my hours worrying for you, from the first cry of the muezzin in the morning to the call to evening prayers."

"1 know that I am in your debt, Dominique, but it is not in my
power
to hand her over to you. Look around—my kingdom is
bursting
with Wasabis."

Delame-N
oir saw it was useless for the t
ime being. He rose. "Very well, but let me implore you to keep this woman alive. You don't want an international martyr on your hands. It would be only a pretext for the Americans."

"The Americans aren't going to do a thing." Maliq snorted. "There's an election coming up. If they moved against me, Tallulah would shut off their oil. Anyway, their ambassador just sent me—this morning—an invitation to the opening of an Elvi
s Presley cultural exhibit. So I
don't think they're planning to parachute soldiers onto my head
for some crackpot lesbian CIA st
irrer-upper
of camel shit."

"Yes, but this crackpot lesbian stirrer-upper of camel shit is now a figure of international celebrity. Your Ministry of Informations can't just keep saying, 'Florence? We don't have no stinking Florence in our dungeon.' No one is be
lieving it
. Are you watching the television?"

"I have no time for television."

"You should create lime, my dear emir, because they are saving some very harsh words about you." Delame-Noir threw up his hands. "I will speak to Bawad. But in the meantime, please, for your sake, keep this woman alive."

"Oh. she's alive."

"Maliq
."

"I said she's alive."

"You didn't put
her in some hole with animals or snakes?"

"What do you t
ake me for?"

"Scorpions?"

"Now you insult
me."

"Then a
ccept my profound apologies, H
oly One. I should have known that as imam of all
Matar
, you are guided first and l
ast by the precepts of the Holy
Koran, the truths revealed to the prophet Mohammed, blessings be upon his great name. In Allah the wise"—he paused—"the
compassionate."
Maliq
flicked at the air with his
aasa.
"Whatever."

Delame-
Noir
turned to leave. "Let me send to you my chef. As a token of fraternal love and respect."

"I could not accept such generosity." Malic] said. "It would be impossible to repay. And an Arab who is not in a position to repay hospitality is a poor friend."

Delame-Noir smiled. "A pity."

As soon as he was gone. Maliq summoned
Fetish
. "If he sends any food, any wine, anything, have it tested for poison. And tell Sharif bin-Judar to keep him under watch. I want to know everything he does. I want to know when he has bowel movements."

"But
Great
Imam, surely the Frenchman is our great ally?"

"We have
spoken.
Fetish
."

"Truly
. Majestic One. Thy words are like Tarfa pearls glistening in sweet water."

"E
h? What's that? Were you listening to us just now?"

"No, sire. May Allah strike me deaf and pluck the
tongue from my mouth. I was only
using a figure of speech—"

"Get Prince B
awad on the phone. And have the masseuse make ready. My head is coming off with pain."

"Immediately, sire."

Fe
ti
sh scurried off backward, scalp
prickly with cold sweat. He reminded himself of the ancient Matari proverb:
Dung beetles cannot crawl into shut mouths.
An English traveler centuries before had stolen it and rendered it less elegantly as
You never have to apologize for something you never said.

FLORENCE COWERED IN a corner, unable to move toward the object now sharing her still-darkened cell. The smell made her gag. For a long time she cowered. Then, slowly, tenuously, she extended the fingers of her right hand and touched the body. What she felt made her recoil. The face and head were mostly gone. Finally,
she reached out again and this t
ime touched an eye dangling from its socket. She became ill. She forced herself to continue her forensic examination. She fell for the hands and found that these, too, were mostly gone, shredded. She wept silently as she probed.

The body was on its back. She thrust her hand between i
t and the cold concrete of the floor,
feeling for the left shoulder blade. Some weeks before, she had felt there a
n
inch-long ridge of thick scar tissue, the result, Bobby had murmured—his mind on other things—of a stab wound inflicted years before by "this Syrian fucker." The scar was right atop the shoulder blade. The knife, he said, had been deflected by the bone, and damn lucky for him.

Her hand was impeded by the tattered shirt, thick and stiff with blood, as well as the deadweight of the corpse. She maneuvered her fingers inside. Here the skin was not shredded or burned. Rigor mortis and death had made it cold and waxen. Her fingertips moved up. slowly, nervously. She held her breath as she reached the shoulder blade and continued.