When Gravity Fails (29 page)

Okking was lost in thought, too, a glint of fear in his eyes. He played with his little mermaid some more. “Bogatyrev wasn’t just a minor clerk with that Russian legation. He was the Grand Duke Vasili Petrovich Bogatyrev, the younger brother of King Vyacheslav of Byelorussia and the Ukraine. His nephew, the crown prince, had gotten to be too much of an embarrassment at court and had to be sent away. Neo-fascist parties in Germany wanted to find the prince and bring him back to Byelorussia, thinking that they could use him to topple his father from the throne and replace the monarchy with a German-controlled ‘protectorate.’ Remnants of the Soviet Communists supported them; they wanted the monarchy destroyed, too, but they planned to replace it with their own sort of government.”

“A temporary alliance of the far right wing and the far left,” I said.

Okking smiled wanly. “It’s happened before.”

“And you were working for the Germans.”

“That’s right.”

“Through Seipolt?”

Okking nodded. He wasn’t enjoying any bit of this. “Bogatyrev wanted you to find the prince. When you did, the duke’s man, whoever he is, would kill him.”

I was astonished. “Bogatyrev was setting up the murder of his own nephew? His brother’s son?”

“To preserve the monarchy at home, yes. They’d decided it was unfortunate but necessary. I told you it was dirty. When you wander into the highest level of international affairs, it’s almost always dirty.”

“Why did Bogatyrev need me to find his nephew?”

Okking shrugged. “In the past three years of the prince’s exile, he’d managed to disguise himself and hide pretty well. Sooner or later, he must have realized his life was in danger.”

“Bogatyrev’s ‘son’ wasn’t killed in a traffic accident, then. You lied to me; he was still alive when you told me the matter was closed. But you say the Byelorussians
did
kill him, after all.”

“He was that sex-change friend of yours. Nikki. Nikki was really the Crown Prince Nikolai Konstantin.”

“Nikki?” I said in a flat voice. I was unnerved by the accumulated weight of the truths I’d demanded to hear, and by the weight of regret. I remembered Nikki’s terrified voice during that short, interrupted telephone call. Could I have saved her? Why hadn’t she trusted me more? Why didn’t she tell me the truth, tell me what she must have suspected? “Then Devi and the other two Sisters were killed—”

“Just because they were too close to her. It didn’t make any difference whether or not they really knew anything dangerous. The German killer—Khan, now—and the Russian guy aren’t taking any chances. That’s why you’re on the list, too. That’s why . . . this.” The lieutenant opened a drawer and took something out, flipped it across his desk toward me.

It was another note on computer paper, just like mine. Only it was addressed to Okking.

“I’m not leaving the police station until this is all over,” he said. “I’m staying right here with a hundred fifty friendly cops watching my back.”

“I hope none of them is Bogatyrev’s knifeman,” I said. Okking winced. The idea had already occurred to him, too.

I wished I knew how long the hit lists were, how many names followed mine and Okking’s. It was a shock when I realized that Yasmin could very well be on them. She knew at least as much as Selima had; more, because I’d told her what I knew and what I guessed. And Chiriga, was her name there? What about Jacques, Saied, and Mahmoud? And how many other people that I knew? Thinking about Nikki, who’d gone from prince to princess to dead, thinking about what I had ahead of me, I felt crushed; I looked at Okking and realized that he was crushed, too. Far worse than I. His career in the city was over, now that he had admitted to being a foreign agent.

“I don’t have any more to tell you,” he said.

“If you learn something, or if I need to get in touch with you . . .”

“I’ll be here,” he said in a dead voice.
“Inshallah.”
I got up and left his office. It was like escaping from prison.

Outside the station house, I unclipped my phone and spoke into it as I walked. I called the hospital and asked for Dr. Yeniknani.

“Hello, Mr. Audran,” came his deep voice.

“I wanted to find out about the old woman, Laila.”

“It’s too soon to tell, to be quite frank. She may recover with the passage of time, but it doesn’t seem likely. She is old and frail. I have her sedated and she’s under constant observation. I’m afraid she might fall into an irreversible coma. Even if that doesn’t happen, there’s an extremely high probability that she will never regain her intelligent faculties. She will never be able to care for herself or perform the simplest tasks.”

I took a deep breath and let it out. I felt that I was to blame.

“All is as Allah ordains,” I said numbly.

“Praise be to Allah.”

“I will ask Friedlander Bey to take upon himself the cost of her medical expenses. What happened to her was a result of my investigations.”

“I understand,” said Dr. Yeniknani. “There is no need to speak to your sponsor. The woman is being treated as a charity case.”

“I speak for Friedlander Bey as well as myself: we cannot adequately express our thanks.”

“It is a sacred duty,” he said simply. “Our technicians have determined what was recorded on that module. Do you wish to know?”

“Yes, of course, “I said.

“There are three bands. The first, as you know, is a recording of the responses of a large, powerful, but starved, maltreated, and ruthlessly provoked cat, apparently a Bengal tiger. The second band is the brain impression of a human infant. The last band is the most repellent of all. It is the captured, fading consciousness of a very recently murdered woman.”

“I knew I was looking for a monster, but I’ve never heard anything so depraved in all my life.” I was thoroughly disgusted. This lunatic had no moral restraints on him at all.

“A piece of advice, Mr. Audran. Never use such a cheaply manufactured module. They are crudely recorded, with a great deal of harmful ‘noise.’ They lack the safeguards built into the industrially made modules. Too frequent use of underground moddies results in damage to your central nervous system, and through it, your whole body.”

“I wonder where it will end?”

“Simple enough to predict: The killer will get a duplicate module made.”

“Unless Okking or I or someone else gets to him first.”

“Take heed, Mr. Audran. He is, as you say, a monster.”

I thanked Dr. Yeniknani and returned the phone to my belt. I couldn’t stop thinking about how wretched and miserable a life Laila had remaining to her. I thought also about my nameless foe, who used a commission from the Byelorussian royalists as a license to indulge his repressed desire to commit atrocities. The news from the hospital changed my half-formed plans entirely. Now I knew precisely what I had to do, and I had some good ideas about how to get it done.

Going up the Street, I met Fuad the Terminally Witless.
“Marhaba,”
he said. He squinted up at me, one hand shading his weak eyes.

“How’s it goin’, Fuad?” I said. I wasn’t in the mood to stand around and talk with him. I had some preparations to make.

“Hassan wants to see you. Something to do with Friedlander Bey. Said you’d know what he meant.”

“Thanks, Fuad.”

“Do you? Know what he means?” He blinked at me, hungry for gossip.

I sighed. “Yeah, right, I know. Got to run.” I tried to tear myself away from him.

“Hassan said it was really important. What’s it all about, Marîd? You can tell me. I can keep a secret.”

I didn’t answer; I doubted that Fuad could keep
anything,
least of all a secret. I just clapped him on the shoulder like a pal, and gave him my back. I stopped in Hassan’s shop before I went home. The American kid was still sitting on his stool in the empty room. He gave me a chilling come-hither smile. I was sure now: this boy liked me. I didn’t say a word, but ducked into the back and found Hassan. He was doing what he was always doing, checking invoices and packing lists against his cartons and crates. He saw me and smiled. Apparently he and I were on good terms now; it was so hard keeping track of Hassan’s moods that I had stopped trying. He set down his clipboard, put one hand on my shoulder, and kissed my cheek in the Arabic manner. “Welcome, O my darling nephew!”

“Fuad said you had something to tell me from Papa.”

Hassan’s face grew serious. “That is only what I told Fuad. I tell you this from
myself.
I am worried, O Maghrebi. I am
more
than worried—I am terrified. I have not slept soundly for four nights, and when I do nap, I have the most horrible dreams. I thought nothing could be worse than when I found Abdoulaye . . . when I found him. . . .” His voice faltered. “Abdoulaye was not a good man, we both know that; yet he and I were closely associated for a number of years. You know that I employed him, even as Friedlander Bey employs me. Now I have been warned by Friedlander Bey that—” Hassan’s voice broke and he was unable to say anything for a moment. I was afraid that I would have to watch this bloated pig go to pieces right in front of me. The idea of patting his hand and saying “There, there,” was absolutely loathsome. He got himself collected, though, and went on. “Friedlander Bey warned me that more of his friends may yet be in danger. That includes you, O clever one, and myself as well. I am sure you understood the risks weeks ago, but I am not a brave man. Friedlander Bey did not choose me to perform your task because he knows I have no courage, no inner resources, no honor. I must be harsh with myself, because now I can see the truth.
I
have no honor.
I think only of myself, of the danger that may confront me, of the possibility that I may suffer and end up just as—” At that point Hassan did break down. He wept. I waited patiently for the shower to pass; slowly the clouds parted, but even then no sun glimmered through.

“I’m taking my own precautions, Hassan. We all should take precautions. Those who’ve been killed died because they were foolish or too trusting, which is the same thing.”

“I trust no one,” said Hassan.

“I know. That may keep you alive, if anything will.”

“How reassuring,” he said dubiously. I don’t know what he wanted—a written promise that I would guarantee his scabrous, pitiful little life?

“You’ll be all right, Hassan; but if you’re so afraid, why not ask Papa for asylum until these killers are caught?”

“Then you think there
are
more than one?”

“I know it.”

“That makes it all twice as bad.” He struck his chest with his fist several times, appealing to Allah for justice: what had Hassan ever done to deserve this? “What will you do?” the plump, fat-faced merchant said.

“I don’t know yet,” I said.

Hassan nodded thoughtfully. “Then may Allah protect you,” he said.

“Peace be upon you, Hassan,” I said.

“And upon you be peace. Take with you this gift from Friedlander Bey.” The “gift” was another envelope thick with crisp currency.

I went back out through the cloth hanging and the bare shop without giving Abdul-Hassan a glance. I decided to stop in to see Chiri, to give her a warning and some advice; I also wanted to hide out there for half an hour and forget that I was running for my life.

Chiriga greeted me with her characteristic enthusiasm.
“Habari gani?”
she cried, the Swahili equivalent of “What’s up?” Then she narrowed her eyes when she saw my implants. “I heard, but I was waiting to see you before I believed. Two?”

“Two,” I admitted.

She shrugged. “Possibilities,” she murmured. I wondered what she was thinking. Chiri was always a couple of steps ahead of me when it came to figuring out ways to pervert and corrupt the best-intentioned of legal institutions.

“How’ve you been?” I asked.

“All right, I guess. No money, nothing happening, same old goddamn boring job.” She showed me her sharpened teeth to let me know that while the club might not be making money and the girls and changes weren’t making money,
Chiri
was making money. And she wasn’t bored, either.

“Well,” I said, “we’re all going to have to work to keep it all right.”

She frowned. “Because of the, uh . . .” She waved a hand in a little circle.

I waved a hand in a little circle, too. “Yeah, because of the ‘uh.’ Nobody but me wants to believe these killings aren’t over and that just about everybody we know is a possible slab-sitter.”

“Yeah, you right, Marîd,” said Chiri in a soft voice. “What the hell you think I should do?”

She had me there. As soon as I talked her into agreeing, she next wanted me to explain the logic the assassins were using. Hell, I’d wasted a lot of time running up and down looking for that, too. Anybody could get bumped, anytime, for any reason. Now when Chiriga asked for practical advice, all I could say was “Be careful.” It looked like you had two choices: you went about things just the same but with more eyes open, or you could go live on another continent just to be on the safe side. The latter is assuming you didn’t pick the wrong continent and walk right into the heart of the matter, or let it follow along with you.

So I shrugged and told her it looked like a gin and bingara kind of afternoon. She poured herself a big drink, poured me a double on the house, and we sat around and looked into each other’s unhappy eyes for a while. No kidding, no flirting, no mentioning the Honey Pílar moddy. I didn’t even look at her new girls, and Chiri and I were huddled together too closely for the others to barge in and say hello. When I killed my drink I took a glass of her tende—it was starting to taste better. The first time I’d tried it, it was like I’d bitten into the side of some animal that had died under a log a week ago. I stood up to go, but then some true tenderness that I wasn’t quick enough to hide made me touch Chiri’s scarred cheek and pat her hand. She flashed me a smile that was almost back to full strength. I got out of there before we both decided to retire to Free Kurdistan or somewhere.

Back at my apartment, Yasmin was working on being late to work. She had got up early that morning to drop her pain and suffering on me, so to get to Frency’s late she just about had to go back to sleep and start all over again. She gave me a drowsy smile from the mattress. “Hi,” she said in a small voice. I think she and the Half-Hajj were the only people in the city who weren’t completely terrified. Saied had his moddy to simulate courage, but Yasmin just had me. She was absolutely confident that I was going to protect her. That made her even dumber than Saied.