The Exile Kiss (29 page)

Jaish
was over. Many of the uniformed men had broken ranks and joined the wrathful rabble.
"Very well done, Audran," said Abu Adil. "Excellently played."
I looked at him. It seemed to me that he was entirely sincere. "It's going to cost you one of your most useful
hirelings," I said. "Paybacks are a bitch, aren't they?"
Abu Adil only shrugged. "I'd written Hajjar off al-ready. I can appreciate good work, Audran, even when it's done
by my enemy. But be warned. Just because I'm con-gratulating you, don't think I'm not already planning a way to make
you pay. This whole matter has been a disas-ter for me."
I smiled. "You brought it on yourself."
"Remember what I said: I'll make you pay."
"I suppose you'll try," I said. I climbed down the steps at the back of the platform. Kmuzu was there. He led me away from the boulevard, away from the surging mob, toward our car.
"Please take off that uniform,
yaa Sidi,"
he said.
"What? Ride home in my underwear?" I laughed.
"At least the tunic. I'm sickened by everything it stands for."
I complied, and tossed the tunic into a corner of the backseat. "Well," I said, stretching out, "how did I do?" Kmuzu turned around briefly, and he gave me one of his rare smiles. "Very fine,
yaa Sidi,"
he said. Then he turned
his attention back to driving.
I relaxed and leaned back against the seat. I told my-self that the slight interruption in my life caused by Abu Adil
and Lieutenant Hajjar and Imam Abd ar-Razzaq was over, and now life could get back to normal. The matter was
closed. As for Shaykh Reda himself, any plans of pay-ing that son of a bitch back the way he deserved had to be
tabled until sometime in the hazy future, after Fried-lander Bey was gathered by Allah into His holy Paradise. In the meantime> Papa and I restored our good names. We met the next day with the amir and presented him with
information and evidence concerning the deaths of Khalid Maxwell, Abd ar-Razzaq, and Lieutenant Hajjar. I didn't feel
it necessary to go into detail about the sudden demise of Sergeant al-Bishah in Najran, or certain other pertinent
points. Shaykh Mahali then ordered one of his administrative deputies to clear us of the false charges, and expunge
any mention of Khalid Maxwell's murder from our records. I was rather gratified by how easily I slipped back into my
old routines. I was soon back at my desk, reviewing information concerning a revolutionary party that was gaining
strength in my homeland of Mauretania. Kmuzu stood beside my desk and waited for me to notice him. I looked up.
"What is it?" I asked.
"The master of the house wishes to speak with you,
yaa Sidi,"
said Kmuzu.
I nodded, not knowing what to expect. With Papa, it
.
was sometimes impossible to predict whether you were being
summoned to receive reward or punishment. My stomach began to churn; had I earned his disfavor again? Were the
Stones That Speak waiting with him to break my bones? Fortunately, that proved not to be the case. Friedlander Bey
smiled at me as I entered his office, and indicated that I should sit near him. "I commanded you to find an elegant
solution to our difficulties, my nephew, and I am well pleased with what you accomplished."
"It makes me glad to hear it, O Shaykh," I said, re-lieved.
"I
have what I believe is adequate recompense for all you have suffered, and for all the labor you performed on my behalf."
"I ask no reward, O Shaykh," I said. Well, I like re-wards as much as the next guy, but it was good form to
¹
offer
a token refusal.
Papa ignored me. He pushed a thin envelope and a ' small cardboard box toward me. I looked up at him ques-tioningly. "Take them, my nephew. It pleases me greatly to give them to you."
The envelope contained money, of course. Not cash, because the sum was too large. It was a bank draft for a quarter-million kiam. I just stared at it for a few seconds, swallowed, and set it down again on the desk. Then I picked up the box and opened it. There was a moddy inside. Friedlander Bey was strongly opposed to personal-ity modules on religious grounds. It was highly unusual for him to give me one. I looked at the label. The moddy was a re-creation of my favorite fictional character, Lutfy Gad's detective, al-Qaddani. I smiled. "Thank you, my uncle," I said softly. The moddy meant more to me than the huge amount of money. There was a kind of warm significance to it that I couldn't put into words. "I had the module created specially for you," said Papa. "I hope you enjoy it." He looked at me for a few seconds more. Then his expression grew serious. "Now tell me about how the datalink project is going. And I need a report on the final disposition of the Cappadocian situation. And further, now that Lieutenant Hajjar is dead, we must decide on a reliable replacement." Months of torment, relieved at the end by a single minute of good cheer. What more could anyone want?

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