Florence of Arabia (38 page)

A
s lor Maliq, he was, if no smarter than before, certainly more determined: no longer the callow vacillator but every inch—such inches as remained— Maliq the Formidable, to say nothing of Maliq the Paranoid.

He had sealed his border with Wasabia, put his military forces on alert, recalled his ambassador from Kaffa and expelled the French ambassador from Amo-Amas, along with all French nationals in Mat
ar. When France dispatched a fleet of Airbuses to collect it
s citizens. Maliq denied landing rights. The French were forced to undergo the humiliation of standing on the municipal
wharf in Amo in the baking heat
and board—like refugees—several forlorn coastal freighters for Dubai. Not since Dunkirk had there been such an inglorious evacuation—and who cares more about glory than the French'.''

"I
bring "lour Greatness good news." Delame-Noir said.

"WHAT?"

"GOOD NEWS, EMINENCE, WE
HAVE ESTABLISHED WHO PLACED THE BOMB."

M
aliq scowled. His lips were coat
ed in burn ointment, making his livid vis
age especially repellent "Ennh!
"

The meaning of "Ennh!" was unclear. Delame-Noir soldiered on. "IT WAS T
HE AMERICANS. THE MAN THIBODEAU
X, THE
LOVER OF THE WOMAN FLORENCE. HE
WAS POSING
AS—I REGRET TO SAY—A FRENCHMAN,
ALONG WITH AN IMPOSTER PRETENDING TO BE AN EMISSARY OF KING TALLULAH YASSIM—"

"Proof—what proof?"

"I QUESTIONED YASSIM, GREATNESS, BEFORE HE—" "Bah. Bring him here. I will question the dog myself."

"I REGRE
T THAT IS NOT POSSIBLE. IMAM. HE
HAS,
MALEUREUSE
MENT,
EXPIRED FROM HIS WOUNDS."

Yassim, that imbecile of imbeciles, had managed one final spectacular feat of incompetence: dying bef
ore he could corroborate what h
e had told Delame-Noir. Of course. Maliq knew very well that Yassim had died, but he wasn't ab
out to make things easier for De
lame-Noir, whom he blamed one way or the other for everything that had
happened. It was,
after all, Delame-Noir who had first suggested that Maliq take over the throne of Matar. Yassim's death had not only deprived Delame-Noir of his witness, it also made it appear that
Delame-Noir had killed him. Had the F
renchman not arrived at Yassim's deathbed with some "eminent neurologist" from Paris and ordered everyone out? And was Yassim not dead a few hours later? All this had been duly reported to Maliq by the guards Delame-Noir had ordered out of the room, eager to assert their
innocence and the F
renchman's villainy.

"Where is your
proof
'
Maliq demanded.

"I SHOWED YASSIM A PHOTO. HE
—"

"Yassim
is DEAD!"

"THEIR PLAN, MAGNIFICENCE,
WAS TO MAKE IT APPEAR THAT WASABIA AND FRANCE, YOUR GREAT FRIENDS AND ALLIES. MADE THIS PLOT IN ORDE
R TO DECEIVE YOU
INTO—"

"The explosive—where did the Americans get
that?
Eh? EH?"

"YES, TH
AT IS WHAT WE ARE AT THIS MOMENT INVESTIGA—"

"And
why didn't your people have TH
AT in their report? Eh?
Eh?"

Maliq now had Delame-Noir by the Achilles heel. Upon seeing the word "Exuperine" in the bomb squad's report, Del
ame-Noir had changed it to "Semt
ex." a more common type of plastic explosive manufactured in the Czech Republic and used by—well, practically everyone. It was this altered version of the report that he had forwarded on to the Matari authorities.

But unbeknownst to Delame-Noir. Colonel Nebkir had been conducting his own forensic analysis at the bomb site. His investigators, finding abundant traces of Exuperine in the remains of Shem, in fragments of the ceremonia
l saddle and in the shredded roy
al footwear, had passed along
their
report to the emir's men (and certain other people). Delame-Noir thus found himself in the unhappy position of being trapped in a lie the size of Montmartre.

When I here is no way out, the only way to go is—forward.

"MON EMIR, THERE A
PPEAR TO BE FORCES AT WORK HERE BEYON
D
EVEN MY
UNDERSTANDING HOWEVER, I AM CONFI
DENT- "

"Bah, Lies! It was FRENCH
explosive that did this to me! Look at me!"

"WELL. PERHAPS IT WAS
MANUFACTURED
IN FRANCE, BIT I CAN ASSURE YOU THAT IT WAS NOT YOUR G
OOD FRENCH FRIENDS WHO—"

"I have the report!"

"SIRE. DON'T YOU SEE? THEY ARE T
RYING TO MAKE IT APPEAR THE WORK OF PARIS AND KAFFA. TO DRIVE A WEDGE BETWEEN YOU AND YOUR MOST TRUSTED FRIENDS AND ALLIES. TO BE SURE, THEY HAVE HAD SOME SUCCESS AT THIS DECEPTION, BUT..."

A doctor with a worried look entered and gave the emir an injection. Delame-Noir forged ahead with his explanations, all too aware of how awkward an
d unconvincing they sounded. H
aving to bellow did not help.

"This alleged letter from Tallulah to Yassim," Maliq said, momentarily calmed by whatever it was they'd injected Into his veins, "where is it? Show it to me."

Delame-Noir sighed. Thibodeaux had out maneuvered him here as well. A search of Yassim s room had produced a letter, all right—a thick, expensive piece of creamy foolscap—completely blank. The ink had vanished. One of the oldest tricks in the trade, and still effective, alas, assuming of course that the target was an imbecile like Yassim.

"THE LETTER WAS WRITTEN IN VANISHING INK. HOLY ONE. BUT I AM CERTAIN THAT A CHEMICAL ANALYSIS WILL SHOW BEYOND QUESTION THAT THE PAPER WE FOUND ONCE
CONTAIN
ED
INK AND—"

"Enough! Enough pathetic, miserable excuses! You were supposed to protect me! And now look at me! How would
you
like to lose your legs, eh?
Eh,
French?"

Recognizing that this was a part of the world where the punitive removal of limbs was still practiced, the old Frenchman decided that the prudent course was retreat, immediate retreat. He was not a coward. He had fought at Dien Bien Phu and killed more A
rabs in Algeria than anyone. H
e didn't mind dying, if it came to that—a final ritual cigarette before the
firing squad, not such a bad way
to
go. But having legs sawed off t
o assuage the pride of a demented emir, no. t
his prospect Delame-Noir did not
relish.

"REST, OH
GREAT OXK.
I SHALL BRING YOUR PROOF. AND YOU WILL SEE WHO ARE Y
OUR
TRUE
FRIENDS."

"OUT! GE
T OUT!"

The doctor, frowning,
leaned forward. "IMAM, YOU MUST REST
!"

Delame-
Noir
retreated backward in the protocol of taking leave of royalty. At the door, he took a last look at the hysterical, legless emir who had once been his
chef d'oevre
:
Maliq's face was one large, ointment-coated bruise, so empurpled that Delame-
Noir
thought for one ghastly moment that it might just burst.

CHAPTER
THIRTY-FIVE

F
lorence awoke to light and the suspicion, lasting several seconds, that she
was dead and that all this whiteness was the decorative motif in some waiting r
oom on the near bank of t
he river Styx.

She became
aware of a pain in her left tem
ple and a bandage, and she knew
that
she was not dead. She felt metal around her left wrist: a manacle attaching her to the bed.

She was no longer in a dark cell with a corpse, or in a room with armed men bawling at her. but in a b
rightly lit. clean room on a cot
covered with
a sheet. They had bathed her, t
oo. She no longer smelled of death.

Florence looked at the door and saw a face peering through the thick glass and wire-mesh window. The face registered that she was conscious now, and disappeared, leaving her a few more moments of tranquillity in which to try to assess her situation.

The last thing she remembered was a pistol being press
ed against her forehead. Salim
bin-Judar. Another person had been present, Colonel... Nebkir? The wound in her temple throbbed. With
her free hand, she worked her f
ingers under the
bandage, feeling sutures stiff
as fishing line. Bin-Judar must have knocked her out with the pistol. Was she in some sort of prison hospital? Evidently, they didn't want her dead just yet.

The door opened, and Salim bin-Judar entered. He no longer looked formidable, oddly, but more like a harassed middle manager running late for a PowerPoint presentation on how
t
o cut 8 perce
nt out of next quarter's operat
ing budget. He carried a clipboard.

"You're awake, t
hen? Will you sign this now?" h
e handed her the clipboard.

"What am I confessing to today?"

"Your role in the attempt on the emir's life. You're to be executed tomorrow evening. Whether you sign this or not."

H
is casualness appeared studied.
There
was something else I had to tell you— oh yes
,
we're killing you tomorrow night, having a few people over.

All right.
Florence thought. She t
oo, could be casual. "I'll sign whatever you want," she said, almost with a shrug, "but you must let me see the sheika."

"She's not here. She's somewhere else." It was obvious he was lying.

"Is she well?"

"Alive is well enough."

"Let me see her, and I will sign." She handed him back his clipboard. "I will talk no more of it. You hold no more terrors for me, Salim."

Salim stared at her. A flicker of something like respect crossed his face. In his career so far, he had informed sixteen people that they would be executed; none had taken the news so placidly. He left.

An hour later, the door to Florence's cell opened again, admitting two guards. They did not ha
ndle her roughly or manacle her,
but covered her head with an
abaaya
and led her out of the cell. After walking down a corridor or two, she heard a series of doors opening an
d fell the immediate baking heat
of outdoors. She was put
into a vehicle between two men,
one of whom had terrible body odor. They drove for under an hour. She was taken from the vehicle, fell again the o
ven heat
of Matar—unless she was in Wasabia—and was taken inside, where it was cool again. They put her in a chair. In front of her, she felt a table. They left the
abaaya
on her,
and having no mesh or eye slit, she could not see. Some minutes passed, then a door opened and she heard male voices. She had told Salim the truth: They had no terrors left for her. Her fear was exhausted.

Then the
abaaya
was removed. B
linking, she looked and saw, sit
ting across the table from her. Laila.

"Oh
, my dear sister."
Laila
said, her eyes brimming with tears. "What have they done to you?"

Florence reached across the table and took Laila's hands in hers. Laila looked gaunt, hollowed out, aged, yet still beautiful. Her eyes, once gay and impertinent, looked hunted, if not defeated.

"And how are you, dear sister?" Florence said, and with that, they both burst into tears.

"This is hardly becoming," Laila said, brush
ing her tears away. "They'll say
it's true—that we're a couple of desert dykes."

Florence smiled. The expression felt strange on her face. She realized that it had been a long time since she had smiled.

"So," s
he said, "we're still alive. H
ow did we manage that?"

They were alone in the small room, though almost certainly being observed and tape-recorded.

"Do you know anything that's happened?" Florence asked Laila.

"I
gather someone tried to kill Maliq."

"Yes." F
lorence nodded. "I'm to ..." H
er voice trailed oil'.

Laila's face turned fearful. She shook her head. "No, Firenze, don't do it."

"Have they asked you to confess to anything?"