George R.R. Martin - [Wild Cards 18] (61 page)

“You have a low opinion of people,” Jayewardene said gently.

“They so rarely disappoint me.” Bahir teleported away.

There were more people in the room when he returned, and Abdul-Alim was regaining his swagger. One of the Egyptian generals was arguing that the Caliph should stay in Cairo while the Baghdad advisors stuttered their objections. Abdul pushed through the crowd. There was an eager light in his brown eyes.

“Is it done?” he asked.

“Almost,” Bahir said. He gripped Abdul on the particular pressure point on the elbow that delivers paralyzing pain, swept his cloak around them, and teleported away.

The wind that cried like the souls of the dead in Aswan also blew in Cairo. As Bahir and Abdul-Alim appeared in the center of the marketplace, Bahir heard the dry clacking of the fronds on the palm trees that clashed and shook under the wind’s assault.

Open-air stalls filled the dusty square, but the sellers of Egyptian souvenirs were absent. There had been no tourists in Cairo for many weeks. Instead, the stalls held foodstuff and cooking oil. The smell of overripe melon mingled with the pungent, oily smell of kerosene, and that of coffee. The shrouded figures of women with baskets over their arms glided between the stalls. In cafes, men in
keffiyehs
drank the thick coffee, played dominos, and argued.

Their sudden appearance stopped every conversation, and pulled a few screams from the heavily veiled women. Bahir transferred his grip from Abdul-Alim’s waist to the nape of his neck. With his other hand he drew his scimitar.

“What are you doing, fool? Take me back at once!”

Bahir ignored him. He filled his lungs so deeply that he felt pressure against the waistband of the trousers that he wore beneath his
dishdasha
and
jalabiya
.

“Hear me! Abdul-Alim has led the armies of the faithful to humiliating defeat at the hands of Western crusaders and abominations! His foolishness has cost the life of our great hero. The Righteous Djinn has fallen.” A moan ran through the listening people. “The caliphate will fall, the oppressors will return.…” The moan became a roar. “
Unless
…” The roar was muted. “… we unite behind a true leader, a great leader. Not this weak and useless man.”

Bahir gave Abdul-Alim a hard shove. The Caliph staggered a few steps, struggled to keep his footing, failed, and fell forward onto his hands. Bahir ripped away Abdul-Alim’s
keffiyeh
. Gripping his scimitar in two hands, he spun in a dervish’s dance and swung the blade. It whistled through the air. Bone and sinew offered momentary resistance, then blood jetted from the severed neck. Abdul-Alim’s head fell with a meaty
thwack
onto the flagstones.

There were screams and wails. Bahir thrust the bloodcoated
blade into the air. “
PRINCE SIRAJ! LEADER OF THE ARAB PEOPLE! SIRAJ!
”

For a moment there was confused silence, then a few tentative voices began.
Siraj. Siraj. Siraj
. More and more people took up the name. Soon it was being shouted, and people went sprinting away down the narrow streets to spread the word. People still loyal to Abdul the Idiot drew knives and flung stones.

Bahir swung his cloak and teleported away as the riot began in earnest.

He reappeared on the grounds of the Mena House Hotel. The long shadow of the Great Pyramid fell across the date palms and jasmine-scented gardens. Bahir looked up at the rough sandstone blocks marching toward the pinnacle. The westering sun sent the shadows of the palm trees across the manicured golf course and up the walls of the hotel. The way the shadows fell created the impression of lines on paper waiting for a mighty pen to write a message.

And the message is—Britain is back
, Bahir thought.

He closed his eyes and prepared himself. If teleporting left him feeling as if every nerve, bone, and sinew in his body had been plucked like a violin string, the transformation was even more disturbing. It burned along his nerve endings as he watched the skin on his hands lose the golden tan and the blond hair on the joints of his fingers turn brunette. His hair now brushed at his collar, and his face felt vulnerable as the beard vanished. He felt his body lengthening, as if invisible hands pulled at his flesh like the hands of a potter coiling soft clay. It pulled at his wounds and hurt like the very devil. Finally it ended.

Noel pulled off the cloak, folded it into a small square, and tucked it beneath his arm.

He sauntered toward the hotel accompanied by the whirr and clack of the sprinklers anointing the grass of the golf course with the waters of the Nile. He chose a service entrance,
picked the lock, and slipped inside. The generators rumbled with a sound like the breathing of a massive beast, as they pushed the air-conditioned air through the hotel.

Back in his room, he washed away the dirt and blood and laid a sulfa-coated bandage over the wounds on his shoulder and belly. He hissed at the medicine’s bite, but felt satisfied. He had been hurt worse and for a less successful result.

He made a few phone calls and then dressed once more in his signature black leather jacket, black silk shirt and tie. Noel strolled down the main staircase. In the lobby, the desk clerks continued their work, answering the phone with soft voices, writing down messages, and placing the notes in room slots. A waiter paced cat-footed across the lobby, carrying a scotch and soda balanced on a tray. Only a few miles away Cairo was in flames, but here wealth buffered all.

Noel used a house phone to call Siraj. A few moments later one of the prince’s bodyguards appeared to escort Noel to the royal suite. Noel pushed past before the guard could knock, and entered without waiting for permission.

Siraj stood frowning at the television screen where Al Jazeera ran a constant kaleidoscope of changing images: the battlefield, the riots in Cairo, the fleeing armies of the caliphate, the great glowing lion, the jokers dancing on the ruins of Philae. Their twisted forms made it look like a scene from
The Inferno
.

“Hello, President,” Noel said, and he flashed a smile at Siraj. The prince’s frown didn’t fade. Noel walked to the table that held an array of bottles. He picked them up one after the other. Not one of them held an alcoholic beverage. It made him oddly uneasy, but Noel shook it off and continued. “A BBC camera crew is on the—”

“I prefer to announce that I’ve taken control on Al Jazeera.”

Noel pushed down the flare of annoyance that roiled briefly in his gut, then threw up a hand. “Fine. I’ll push back the time with the BBC.”

“You don’t understand me. I will not speak to
any
Western media outlet.” The prince’s tone was flat, and devoid of emotion. The anger was gone, replaced with a flutter of concern.
Not in their years as roommates at Cambridge or in the years subsequent had Noel ever heard such a tone out of the Jordanian.

Noel decided to change the subject.
Let Siraj have his little glamor fit
. “You’ve got an ally in Bahir,” Noel said. “He killed Abdul the Idiot and declared for you.”

“That’s an ally I’m not sure I want,” Siraj said. “Isn’t he driven by religion?”

Noel shrugged. “Oh, here’s something else you should announce. Agents of the Silver Helix freed Jayewardene, so do take a bow for that as well when you assume control.”

“You should not have done that. He was our hostage.
My
hostage.”

“It would have been incredibly stupid for you to hold him. Look, old boy, I know—”

The rigid control broke. “
Don’t
call me boy!” Siraj thrust his finger at the screen. “For two days I’ve watched Arab soldiers dying beneath the blade of a Teutonic knight. An American ace burning them in fire, another crushing them, presumably in the name of his god. These were normal men whose only offense was to serve their god …”

And massacre jokers
, Noel thought, but he kept the words behind his teeth.

“… and follow a fool,” Siraj concluded. Bitterness hung on the words. “I would have protected those frauds, the Living Gods, and left their deluded followers in peace, but these mad children have made that impossible now.”

Softly, Noel said, “We’re not behind the aces. In fact, I tried to stop them.”

Siraj’s implacable expression did not change. “That doesn’t absolve you. You are still a Westerner, and one could say the worst offender. For a hundred years Britain has destroyed our governments.…”

“What governments?” Noel drawled.

“You have drawn countries in the sand, all in pursuit of our oil. And the UN has stood by while refugee camps have festered and children have starved. I would have done nothing for Jayewardene.”

It left Noel breathless. He had spent years cultivating this
friendship. He had killed for this man. “You’re Cambridge educated, for God’s sake, you know how the world works. This is
realpolitik
. We’ve given you Arabia. It’s time you remembered where your loyalties lie.”

“I have.” A weight of decision was carried on the words. Geography, culture, and religion formed a vast chasm between them, and as if to physically drive home the gulf, Siraj took another few steps away from Noel. “For a thousand years we’ve staggered under the rule of despots. That changes now.”

Noel gave an elaborate shrug. “I’m sure you’ll be a paragon, but reality does intrude, and here’s one for you to consider—ruling with our support would have been much better than what you’re about to attempt.”

“Your problem, Noel, is that you don’t give a damn about anything. You never have. It’s all a game to you.”

The words stung in a way he hadn’t expected.
No, you bastard, it’s about crown and country, and doing what’s necessary to protect them both
.

Siraj said, “I’ve found my soul, and it’s Arab. A hundred million of my people are looking to me to lead them. I will deliver neither them nor their patrimony into the hands of Western imperialism and paternalism—whether it wears a corporate face or not.”

“Listen to yourself,” Noel said. “You sound like a street Arab.”

The slur hit home. Siraj stiffened, and Noel realized he had allowed his anger and pique to override his ability to read others and calculate every word and gesture he made. “I think you will not be leaving.” The words were forced between the Jordanian’s clenched teeth. “You will be revealed as a spy, and the courts will mete out your punishment.” Siraj raised a pudgy hand. From behind the elaborate carved wood screens four guards stepped out.

Noel glanced out the window. The sun was down, but the last light had not yet faded from the sky. He was trapped. Twilight had robbed him of his power, and there was no escape. Two of the guards grabbed his arms. A third one stuck the barrel of a rifle in his back. The final soldier quickly
lifted the Browning out of its holster. “Take him to the Kanater Mens Prison,” the prince said.

They weren’t gentle as they bundled him into the back of a car. Noel looked back through the dust-covered back window at the receding angles of the Great Pyramid. He glanced surreptitiously down at his watch. He had at least eleven minutes until full dark when he could become Lilith. But he didn’t dare reveal her in front of the guards. He would have to wait for the cell. He resigned himself to an unpleasant hour.