The Exile Kiss (27 page)

"Do you know why you're here, my nephew?" said Papa, coming closer and standing over me. He put one hand on my cheek, which was now wet with tears. The Stone continued to twist my arm.
"No, O Shaykh," I said. My voice was hoarse. I could only gasp the word out.
"Drugs," said Papa simply. "You've been seen in publie too often under the influence of drugs. You know how I
feel about that. You've scorned the holy word of Prophet Muhammad, may the blessings of Allah be on him and
peace. .He prohibits intoxication.
I
prohibit intoxication."
"Yes," I said. It was clear to me that he was angrier at the affront to him than the affront to our blessed religion.
"You had warnings in the past. This is the last. The last
of
all time. If you do not mend your behavior, my nephew, you will take another ride with Tariq. He won't bring you here, though. He'll drive away from the city. He'll drive far into the desert wastes. He'll return home alone. And this time there will be no hope of your walking back alive. Tariq won't be as careless as Shaykh Reda. All this despite the fact that you're my great-grandson. I have other great-grandsons."
"Yes, O Shaykh," I said softly. I was in severe pain. "Please."
He flicked his eyes at the Stones. They stepped away from me immediately. The agony continued. It would not go away for a long time. I got out of the chair slowly, grimacing.
"Wait yet a moment, my nephew," said Friedlander Bey. "We're not finished here."
"Yallah,"
I exclaimed.
"Tariq," called Papa. The driver came into the room. 'Tariq, give my nephew the weapon."
Tariq came to me and looked into my eyes. Now I thought I could see a touch of sympathy. There had been none before. He took out a needle gurTand laid it in my hand.
"What is this gun, O Shaykh?" I asked.
Papa's brow furrowed. "That, my nephew, is the weapon that killed the imam, Dr. Sadiq Abd ar-Razzaq. With it, you should be able to discover the identity of the murderer."
I stared at the needle gun as if it were some unearthly alien artifact. "How—"
"I have no more answers for you."
I stood up straighter and looked directly at the white-haired old man. "How did you get this gun?"
Papa waved a hand. It evidently wasn't important enough for me to know the answer to that. All I had to do was find out who owned it. I knew then that this interview was over. Friedlander Bey had come to the end of his patience, with me, with the way I was handling the inves-tigation.
I realized suddenly that he could well be lying—the needle gun might not actually have been the murder weapon. Yet in the vast, complicated web of intrigues that surrounded him and me and Shaykh Reda, perhaps that was irrelevant. Perhaps the only important thing was that the gun had been so designated.
Tariq helped me outside to the car. I maneuvered myself slowly into the backseat, holding the needle gun close to my chest. Just before he slammed the door, Tariq reached in and handed me the suppressor daddies. I looked at him, but I couldn't find anything to say. I reached up and chipped them in gratefully.
"Where shall I drive you, Shaykh Marid?" said Tariq, as he got behind the wheel and started the engine.
I had a short list of three choices. First, I wanted to go home, climb back in bed, and take a few medicinal Son-neine until my tormented arm and shoulders felt better. I knew, however, that Kmuzu would never permit it. Fail-ing that, I preferred to go to Chili's and knock back a few White Deaths. My watch told me that the day shift hadn't even arrived yet. In third place, but the winner by default, was the police station. I had an important clue to check out.
"Take me to Walid al-Akbar Street, Tariq," I said. He nodded. It was a long, bumpy ride back to the more famil-" iar
districts of the city. I sat with my head tilted back, my eyes closed, listening to the gray noise in my head from
suppressors. I felt nothing. My discomfort and my emotions had been planed off electronically. I could have been
in a restless, dreamless sleep; I didn't even think about what I'd do when I got to my destination.
Tariq interrupted my respite. "We're here," he said. He stopped the car, jumped out, and opened my door. I climbed out quickly; the pain suppressor made it easy.
"Shall I wait for you here, Shaykh Marid?"
"Yes," I said. "I won't be long. Oh, by the way, do you have some paper and something to write with? I don't .vant to take this needle gun in there. I need to write down the serial number, though."
Tariq searched his pockets and came up with what I needed. I scribbled the number down on the back of some stranger's business card and put it in the pocket of my
gallebeya.
Then I hurried up the stairs.
I didn't want to run into Lieutenant Hajjar. I went straight to the computer room. This time, the female ser-geant on duty only nodded to me. I guess I was getting to be a familiar fixture around there. I sat down at one of the streaked and smudged data decks and logged on. When the computer asked me what I wanted, I murmured, "Weapons trace." I passed through several menus of choices, and finally the computer asked me for the serial number of the weapon in question. I took out the busi-ness card and read off the combination of letters and dig-its.
The computer mulled it over for a few seconds, then its screen filled with enlightening information. The needle gun was registered to my pal Lieutenant Hajjar himself. I sat back and stared at the computer. Hajjar? Why would Hajjar murder the imam? Because Hajjar was Shaykh Reda Abu Adil's tame cop. And Shaykh Reda thought he owned Abd ar-Razzaq, too. But the imam had made a dangerous mistake—he'd permitted me to proceed with the exhumation of Khalid Maxwell, against Abu Adil's strongest wishes. Abd ar-Raz-zaq had apparently had a few shreds of integrity left, a tarnished loyalty to truth and justice, and Abu Adil had ordered his death because of it. Shaykh Reda was watch-ing helplessly as his plan to get rid of Friedlander Bey and myself slowly unraveled. Now, to save his own ass, he had _ to make sure that he wasn't connected in any way to the death of Khalid Maxwell.
There was more data on the computer screen. I learned next that the needle gun hadn't been stolen, that it had been properly registered by Hajjar three years ago. The file listed Hajjar's residence, but I knew for a fact that it was long out of date. More interesting, however, was that the file included Hajjar's complete rap sheet, detailing every misstep and misdemeanor he'd committed since coming to the city. There was an extensive recitation of all the charges that had been brought against him, in-cluding those for drug dealing, blackmail, and extortion on which he'd never actually been convicted.
I laughed, because Hajjar had worked so carefully to erase all this information from his entry in the personnel files and from the city's criminal information database. He'd forgotten about this entry, and maybe someday it would help to hang the stupid son of a bitch.
I had just cleared the screen when a voice spoke in Hajjar's Jordanian accent. "How much more time you got before the axman takes you, Maghrebi? You keepin' track?"
I swiveled the chair around and smiled at him. "Ev-erything's falling into place. I don't think we've got any-thingto worry about." Hajjar bent toward me and sucked his teeth. "No? What did you do, forge a signed confession? Who you pinning the rap on? Your mama?"
"Got everything I need right out of your computer. I want to thank you for letting me use it. You've been a good sport, Hajjar/'
"The hell you talkin' about?"
I shrugged. "I learned a lot from Maxwell's autopsy, but it wasn't conclusive." ' The lieutenant grunted. "Tried to warn you."
"So I came here and started poking around. I accessed the city's police procedure libraries and found a very in-teresting article. It seems there's a new technique to iden-tify the killers of victims done by static pistols. You know anything about that?"
"Nah. You can't trace back a static pistol. It don't leave evidence. No bullets or flechettes or nothing."
I figured a couple more lies in a good cause couldn't hurt. "This article said every static pistol leaves its individ-ual trace in the cells of the victim's body. You mean you never read that? You're not keeping up with your home-work, Hajjar."
His smile vanished, replaced by a very worried expres-sion. "You making all this up?"
I laughed. "What do I know about this stuff? How could I make it up? I told you, I just read it in your own library. Now I'm gonna have to go to Shaykh Mahali and ask to have Maxwell exhumed again. The M.E. didn't look for those static pistol traces. I don't think he knew about 'em, either."
Hajjar's face turned pale. He reached out and grabbed the material of my
gallebeya
below my throat. "You do that," he growled, "and every good Muslim in the city will tear you to pieces. I'm warning you. Let Maxwell alone. You had your chance. If you don't have the evi-dence by now, you're just out of luck."
I grabbed his wrist and twisted it, and he let go of me. "Forget it," I said. "You get on the wire and tell Abu Adil what I said. I'm only one step away from clearing my name and putting somebody else's head on the block."
Hajjar reached back and slapped me hard across the face. "You've gone too far now, Audran," he said. He looked terrified. "Get out of here and don't come back. Not until you're ready to confess to both murders."
I stood up and pushed him backward a step. "Yeah, you right, Hajjar," I said. Feeling better than I had in days, I left the computer room and ran down the stairs to where Tariq was waiting for me.
I had him drive me back to the Budayeen. I'd gotten a lot done that morning, but it was lunchtime now and I felt I'd earned myself some food and a little relaxation. Just inside the eastern gate, on First Street across from the morgue, was a restaurant called Meloul's. Meloul was a Maghrebi like me, and he owned another cookshop not far from the police station. It was a favorite of the cops, and he'd done so well that he'd opened a second location in the Budayeen, managed by his brother-in-law.
I took a seat at a small table near the rear of the restaurant, with my back to the kitchen so I could see who came in the door. Meloul's brother-in-law came over, smiling, and handed me a menu. He was a short, heavy-set man with a huge hooked nose, dark Berber skin, and a bald head except for thin fringes of black hair over each ear. "My name is Sliman. How do you do today?" he asked.
"Fine," I said. "I've eaten at MelouFs place. I enjoyed the food very much."
"I'm happy to hear it," said Sliman. "Here I've added some dishes from all over North Africa and the Middle East. I
hope you will be pleased."
I studied the menu for a little while and ordered a bowl of cold yogurt and cucumber soup, followed by broiled skewered chicken. While I waited, Sliman brought me a glass of sweet mint tea.
The food came quickly, and it was plentiful and good. I ate slowly, savoring every mouthful. At the same time, I was waiting for a phone call. I was waiting for Kenneth to tell me that if I went ahead with the phony second exhu-mation, Shaykh Reda would condemn me to all the ago-nies of Hell.
I finished my meal, paid my bill, and left Sliman a hefty tip, and went back outside. Immediately, I heard a boy whistling the child's tune. I was being watched. After the meal, and with the suppressor daddies still chipped in, I didn't really care. I could take care of myself. I thought I'd demonstrated that time and time again. I started walk-ing up the Street.
A second boy began whistling along with the first. I thought I heard a hint of urgency in their signal. I stopped, suddenly wary, and looked around. From the corner of my eye I caught a blur of movement, and when I looked, I saw Hajjar running toward me, as fast as his legs could carry him.
He raised his hand. There was a static pistol in it. He fired, but he didn't hit me squarely. Still, there was a horrible moment of disorientation, a flush of heat through my body, and then I collapsed on the sidewalk, twitching and quivering spasmodically. I couldn't get my body to respond to my wishes. I couldn't control my muscles.
Beyond me, one of the boys also fell to the ground. He didn't move at all.

16

A hey took out the suppressor daddies and put me to bed, and I was unaware of anything else for about twenty-four hours. When I began to gather my scat-tered wits the next day, I was still trembling and unable even to grasp a glass of water. Kmuzu tended me con-stantly, sitting in a chair beside my bed and filling me in on what had happened.

"Did you get a good look at whoever shot you,
yaa Sidi?"
he asked.

"Whoever shot me?" I said in astonishment. "It was Hajjar, that's who. I saw him plain as day. Didn't anyone else?"
Kmuzu's brow furrowed. "No one would come for-ward with an identification. There was apparently only one witness willing to speak, and that was one of the two boys who were trying to warn you. He gave a sketchy description that is completely without value, as far as identifying the killer."
"Killer? Then the other boy—"
"Is dead,
yaa Sidi."
I
nodded, greatly saddened. I let my head fall back on the pillows, and I closed my eyes. I had a lot to think about. I wondered if the murdered boy had been Ghazi; I hoped not.
A few minutes later, I had another idea. "Have there been any calls for me, Kmuzu?" I asked. "Especially calls from Shaykh Reda or his peg boy, Kenneth."
Kmuzu shook his head. "There've been calls from Chiriga and Yasmin. Your friends Saied and Jacques even came to the house, but you were in no condition to re-ceive them. There were no calls from Shaykh Reda."
That was deeply meaningful. I'd fed Hajjar the lie about a second exhumation, and he'd reacted violently, even running after me to stop my investigation with a pop from a static gun. I suppose he thought he could make it look as if I'd just had a heart attack right there on the sidewalk in the Budayeen. The trouble with Hajjar was, he just wasn't as hot as he though he was. He couldn't bring it off.
I'm sure he passed along my plans to his boss, Shaykh Reda; but this time, there was no warning call from Ken-neth. Maybe Abu Adil knew I was only bluffing. Maybe he figured that there couldn't be anymore useful information to be gained by examining Khalid Maxwell's corpse again. Maybe he was just so confident that he didn't care.
This amounted to the third trip around the village, and this time there was only one interested party: Hajjar. I was certain in my heart that he was guilty of both murders. It came as no surprise. He'd killed Khalid Max-well under orders from Abu Adil, and tried to pin the murder on me; he'd assassinated Dr. Sadiq Abd ar-Razzaq; and he'd wiped out an innocent boy, probably unin-tentionally. The problem was, as well as I knew the truth, I still didn't have anything I could take into court and wave under his nose.
I couldn't even hold a book, so I watched the holoset all afternoon. There was coverage of the slain imam's fu-neral, which had been held the day before, after he lay in state for twenty-four hours. Hajjar had been right; there were riots. The streets around the Shimaal Mosque were choked with" hundreds of thousands of mourners, day and night. Some of them got a little carried away, and stood outside the mosque, chanting and slashing their own arms and scalps with razors. The crowds surged in one direc-tion and then another, and scores of people were killed, either smothered or trampled.
There were constant, shrill outcries for the murderer to be brought to justice. I waited to see if Hajjar had given my name to the newsmen, but the lieutenant was helpless to fulfill his threat. He didn't even have a murder weapon to connect a suspect to the crime. All he had was some extremely thin circumstantial evidence. I was safe from him, at least for a while.
When I iired of watching the coverage, I turned it off and watched a performance of the mid-sixteenth century a.h. opera,
The Execution of Rushdie.
It did nothing to cheer me up.
My inspiration came just as Kmuzu brought in a tray of chicken and vegetable couscous and prepared to feed me. "I think I've got him now," I said. "Kmuzu, would you please ask Info for the medical examiner's office num-ber, and hold the phone up to my ear for me?"
"Certainly,
yaa Sidi."
He got the number and mur-mured it into the receiver. He held the phone so that I could hear and speak into it.
"Marhaba,"
said a voice on the other end. It was one of the assistants.
"God be with you," I said. "This is Marid Audran. I was the one who ordered the autopsy on Khalid Maxwell a couple of days ago."
"Yes, Mr. Audran. When you didn't come back, we mailed the results to you. Is there anything else we can do?"
"Yes, there is." My heart started to beat faster. "I was slightly affected by a pulse from -a static pistol in the Budayeen—" ""
"Yes, we heard about that. A young boy was killed in the same attack."
"Exactly. That's what I want to talk to you about. Was an autopsy done on the boy?"
"Yes."
"Now, listen. This is very important. Would you ask Dr. Besharati to compare the cell rupture pattern in the boy's heart with that of Khalid Maxwell? I think there might be a match."
"Hmm. That is interesting. But, you know, even if there is, it won't do you any good. Not in any legal sense. You can't—"
"I know all about that. I just want to find out if my suspicion is correct. Could you ask him to check on that soon? I'm not exaggerating when I say it's a life-and-death matter."
"All right, Mr. Audran. You'll probably be hearing from him later today."
"I am quite unable to express my thanks," I said fer-vently.
"Yeah," said' the assistant. "What you say." He hung up.
Kmuzu put down the telephone. "Excellent reasoning,
yaa Sidi,"
he said. He almost smiled.