When Gravity Fails (33 page)

First I checked the general files, which were much like a news agency’s morgue. When I typed in a name, the computer gave me every fact available to it concerning the person. The first name I entered was Okking’s. The cursor paused for a second or two, then lettered steadily across the display in Arabic, right to left. I learned Okking’s first name, his middle name, his age, where he’d been born, what he’d done before coming to the city, all the stuff that gets put on a form above the important double line. Below that line comes the really vital information; depending on whose form it is, that can be the subject’s medical record, arrest record, credit history, political involvement, sexual preference(s), or anything else that may one day be pertinent.

As for Okking, below that double line there was nothing. Absolutely nothing.
Al-Sifr,
zero.

At first I assumed there was some kind of computer problem. I started over again, returning to the first menu, choosing the sort of information I was looking for, and typing in Okking’s name. And waited.

Mâ
shî.
Nothing.

Okking had done this, I was sure. He had covered his tracks, just as his boy Khan was now covering his own. If I wanted to travel to Europe, to Okking’s birthplace, I might learn more about him, but only to the point when he left there to come to the city. Since then, he did not exist at all, not officially speaking.

I typed in Universal Export, the code name of James Bond’s espionage group. I had seen it on an envelope on Okking’s desk once. Again, there were no entries.

I tried James Bond without hope, and turned up nothing. Similarly with Xarghis Khan. The real Khan and the “real” Bond had never visited the city, so there was no file on either of them.

I thought about other people I might spy on—Yasmin, Friedlander Bey, even myself—but I decided to leave my curiosity unsatisfied until a less urgent occasion. I entered Hajjar’s name and was not astonished by what I read. He was about two years younger than I was, Jordanian, with a moderately long arrest record before coming to the city. A psychological profile agreed point for point with my own estimation of him; you didn’t dare trust him as far as he could run with a camel on his back. He was suspected of smuggling drugs and money to prisoners. He was once investigated in connection with the disappearance of a good deal of confiscated property, but nothing definite came of it. The official file put forth the possibility that Hajjar might be profiting from his position on the police force, that he might be selling his influence to private citizens or criminal organizations. The report suggested that he might not be above such abuses of authority as extortion, racketeering, and conspiracy, among other law-enforcement frailties.

Hajjar?
Come now, what ever gave you that idea? Allah forfend.

I shook my head ruefully. Police departments all over the world were identical in two respects: they all have a fondness for breaking your head open for little or no provocation, and they can’t see the simple truth if it’s lying in front of them naked with its legs spread. The police don’t enforce laws; they don’t even get busy until after the laws are broken. They solve crimes at a pitifully low rate of success. What the police are, to be honest, is a kind of secretarial pool that records the names of the victims and the statements of the witnesses. After enough time passes, they can safely shove this information to the back of the filing system to make room for more.

Oh yeah, the police help little old ladies across the street. So I’m told.

One by one, I entered the names of everyone who’d been connected to Nikki, beginning with her uncle, Bogatyrev. The entries on the old Russian and on Nikki matched exactly what Okking had finally told me about them. I figured that if Okking could excise himself from this system, he could alter its remaining records in other ways, too. I wouldn’t find anything useful here except by accident or Okking’s oversight. I went on with a diminished hope of success.

I had none. At last I changed my mind and read the entries on Yasmin, Papa, and Chiri, on the Black Widow Sisters, on Seipolt and Abdoulaye. The files told me that Hassan was likely a hypocrite, because he would not use brain implants for his business, on religious grounds, yet he was a known pederast. That wasn’t news to me. The only thing that I might suggest to Hassan someday was that the American boy, who already had his skull wired, might be more useful as an accounting tool than just sitting on a stool in Hassan’s bare shop.

The only person I knew on whom I didn’t peep was myself. I didn’t want to know what they thought about me.

After I searched the files for my friends’ histories, I looked at telephone company records for the phones in the police station. There was nothing enlightening there, either; Okking wouldn’t have used his office phone to call Bond. It was like I was standing at the hub of a lot of radiating roads, all of them dead ends.

I walked out of there with food for thought but no new facts. I like knowing what the files had to say about Hajjar and the others; and the reticence it showed toward Okking—and, not so mysteriously, toward Friedlander Bey—was provocative if not informative. I thought about it all as I wandered into the Budayeen. In a few minutes I was back at my apartment building.

Why had I come here? Well, I didn’t want to sleep in the hotel room another night. At least one assassin knew I was there. I needed another base of operations, one that would be safe for at least a day or two. As I got more accustomed to letting the daddies help me in my planning, my decision making got faster and less influenced by my emotions. I now felt completely in control, cool and assured. I wanted to get a message to Papa, and then I would find another temporary place to sleep.

My apartment was just the way I’d left it. Truthfully, I hadn’t been away long, although it felt like weeks; my time sense was all distorted. Tossing the zipper bag onto the mattress, I sat down and murmured Hassan’s commcode into my phone. It rang three times before he answered.
“Marhaba,”
he said. He sounded tired.

“Hello, Hassan, this is Audran. I need to have a meeting with Friedlander Bey, and I was hoping you could fix it for me.”

“He will be glad that you are showing interest in doing things the proper way, my nephew. Certainly, he will want to see you and learn from you what progress you are making. Do you wish an appointment for this afternoon?”

“As soon as you can, Hassan.”

“I will take care of it, O clever one, and I will call you back to tell you of the arrangements.”

“Thanks. Before you go, I want to ask you a question. Do you know if there’s any connection between Papa and Lutz Seipolt?”

There was a long silence while Hassan framed his reply. “Not any longer, my nephew. Seipolt is dead, is he not?”

“I know that,” I said impatiently.

“Seipolt was involved only in the import-export trade. He dealt only in cheap trinkets, nothing that would be of interest to Papa.”

“Then so far as you know, Papa never tried to cut himself a piece of Seipolt’s business?”

“My nephew, Seipolt’s business was barely worth mentioning. He was just a small businessman, like myself.”

“But, also like yourself, he felt he needed a secondary income to make ends meet. You work for Friedlander Bey, and Seipolt worked for the Germans.”

“By the life of my eyes! Is that so? Seipolt, a spy?”

“I’d be willing to bet you already knew that. Never mind. Did
you
ever have any dealings with him?”

“What do you mean?” Hassan’s voice became harsh.

“Business. Import-export. You have that in common.”

“Oh, well, I bought items from him now and then, if he offered some particularly interesting European goods; but I don’t think he ever bought anything from me.”

That didn’t get me anywhere. At Hassan’s request, I gave him a quick rundown of the events since my discovery of Seipolt’s body. By the time I finished, he was thoroughly frightened again. I told him about Okking and the doctored police records. “That’s why I need to see Friedlander Bey,” I said.

“You suspect something?” asked Hassan.

“It isn’t only the missing information in the files, and the fact that Okking’s a foreign agent. I just can’t believe that he has the full resources of the department looking into these murders, and yet he hasn’t come forward with a single useful piece of information for me. I’m sure he knows much more than he’s telling me. Papa promised that he’d pressure Okking into sharing what he knows. I need to hear all that.”

“Of course, my nephew, don’t worry about that. It shall be done,
inshallah.
Then you have no true idea of how much the lieutenant actually knows?”

“That is the way of the
flic.
He might have the whole case wrapped up, or he may know even less than I do. He’s a master at giving you the runaround.”

“He cannot give Friedlander Bey the runaround.”

“He’ll try.”

“He won’t succeed. Do you need more money, O clever one?”

Hell, I could always use more money. “No, Hassan, I’m doing fine for now. Papa has been more than generous.”

“If you need cash to further your investigation, you have only to contact me. You are doing an excellent job, my son.”

“At least I’m not dead yet.”

“You have the wit of a poet, my darling. I must go now. Business is business, you know.”

“Right, Hassan. Call me back after you’ve spoken with Papa.”

“Praise be to Allah for your safety.”

“Allah yisallimak,”
I said. I stood up and tucked the phone away again; then I began looking for the one other object that I’d found in Nikki’s purse: the scarab she had taken from Seipolt’s collection. That brass reproduction tied Nikki directly to Seipolt, as did her ring that I’d seen in the German’s house. Of course, with Seipolt now among the dear departed, these items were of questionable value. True, Dr. Yeniknani still had the homemade moddy; that might be an important piece of evidence. I thought it was time to begin preparing a presentation of all I’d learned, so that I could eventually turn it all in to the authorities. Not Okking, of course, and not Hajjar. I wasn’t sure who the proper authorities were, but I knew there had to be some somewhere. The three items were not enough to convict anyone in a European court of law, but according to Islamic justice, they were plenty.

I found the scarab under the edge of the mattress. I unzipped my bag and stuffed Seipolt’s tourist’s souvenir down under my clothing. I packed carefully, wanting to be sure that everything I owned was out of the apartment. Then I kicked a lot of scraps and rubbish into low piles here and there. I didn’t feel like spending a lot of time cleaning. When I finished, there was nothing in the room that showed that I’d ever lived there. I felt a stinging sadness: I’d lived in that apartment longer than in any other single place in my life. If anywhere could truly be called my home, this little apartment should be it. Now, though, it was a big, abandoned room with dirty windows and a torn mattress on the floor. I went out, shutting the door behind me.

I returned my keys to Qasim, the landlord. He was surprised and upset that I was going. “I’ve liked living in your building,” I told him, “but it pleases Allah that now I must move on.”

He embraced me and called on Allah to lead each of us in righteousness unto Paradise.

I went to the bank and used the card to withdraw my entire account, closing it. I stuffed the bills into the envelope Friedlander Bey had sent me. When I got myself another place to stay, I’d take it out and see how much I had altogether; I was kind of teasing myself by not peeking now.

My third stop was the Hotel Palazzo di Marco Aurelio. I was dressed now in my
gallebeya
and
keffiya,
but with my short haircut and clean-shaven face. I don’t think the desk clerk recognized me.

“I paid for a week in advance,” I said, “but business matters force me to check out earlier than I planned.”

The desk man murmured. “We’re sorry to hear that, sir. We’ve enjoyed having you.” I nodded and tossed my room’s tag onto the counter. “Just let me look at . . .” He keyed the room number into his terminal, saw that the hotel did indeed owe me a little money, and began getting the voucher printed out.

“You’ve all been very kind,” I said.

He smiled. “It is our pleasure,” he said. He handed me the voucher and pointed to the cashier. I thanked him again. A few moments later I crammed the partial refund in my zipper bag with the rest of my money.

Carrying my cash, my moddies and daddies, and my clothing in the zipper bag, I walked south and west, away from the Budayeen and away from the expensive shopping district beside the Boulevard il-Jameel. I came to a
fellahîn
neighborhood of twisting streets and alleys, where the houses were small, flat-topped, needing whitewash, with windows covered by shutters or thin wooden lattices. Some were in better repair, with attempts at gardening in the dry earth at the base of the walls. Others looked derelict, their gap-toothed shutters hanging in the sun like tongues of panting dogs. I went up to a well-kept house and rapped on the door. I waited a few minutes until it opened. A large, heavily muscled man with a full black beard glared down at me. His eyes were narrowed suspiciously, and in the corner of his mouth his teeth were chewing away at a splinter of wood. He waited for me to speak.

With no confidence at all, I launched into my story. “I have been stranded in this city by my companions. They stole all our merchandise and my money, too. I must beg in the name of Allah and the Apostle of God, may the blessings of Allah be upon him and peace, your hospitality for today and for this evening.”

“I see,” said the man in a surly voice. “The house is closed.”

“I will give you no cause for offense. I will—”

“Why don’t you try begging where the hospitality is more generous? People tell me there are families here and about with enough to eat for themselves and also for dogs and strangers, as well. Me, I’m lucky to earn a little money for beans and bread for my wife and my four children.”