by Malka Older
That question, at least, seems to surprise him. “We don’t need it,” he answers, as if it were obvious.
* * *
If the interviews with suspects are not going well, at least at the staff meeting Amran has something to report back on the oil barrel explosion. “I was able to confirm that Al-Jabali was at the site when the explosion occurred. He and Amal were in a small room next to the office where we met her. The barrel that exploded was at the back of the warehouse, next to the wall of that room and also behind a lot of other barrels, which made it difficult to reach, so there was a high risk that the rest of the stock and the roof would catch fire.”
“Eek,” comments Maria. “Sounds like attempted assassination to me.”
“Yes,” Amran agrees. “It was a very dangerous situation. But Amal had prepared her warehouse staff for this sort of event, and they were very quick at putting out the fire.”
“But why did the barrel explode?” Charles asks.
“I could not find out any definitive cause.…” Amran trails off, looking down at her hands, and then glances up at Minzhe, who shakes his head minutely.
“I wonder if Al-Jabali realized this was a threat as opposed to an accident,” Roz muses. She is thinking aloud, trying to put herself in his position: the startling bang, the panic, heat, and sparks, the uncomfortably interrupted liaison.
“Actually…” Amran clears her throat. “Al-Jabali did a mental-emotional scan the day after the explosion.”
Roz offers her an impressed nod and then, without a word, searches, finds the record of the scan, and uses her authorization and a link to the death certificate to open it. Mental-emotional scans are highly protected data, and it is with a shiver of taboo that Roz projects the scan into the middle of the office. The team studies it.
“I’d say he knew it was an attack,” Maria says, pointing at the mountain of anger and only slightly smaller overlapping peak of fear.
“Not only that,” Roz answers. She twitches her fingers, pulling a low curve of guilt into relief. “Look at this. I bet he thought he was responsible for it, somehow.” She stares at the graph of a dead man’s emotional state right after he realized someone was trying to kill him. “What did he do to make him think that?”
* * *
Roz calls Maryam that night before she goes to sleep. “How’s it going?”
“Not too bad. Thanks so much for calling, Roz, I know I’ve been a pain over the past few months.”
“It happens to all of us,” Roz repeats.
“I wish I could just get past it, but I still feel…”
Roz waits, then tries to shift the conversation. “What are you working on these days?”
Maryam snorts. “I’m trying to crack the Heritage codes. We can’t figure out how they’ve been communicating about the secession, so we’re looking at new encryption, disguised discussions in public plazas, advids—anything that might provide government-wide communication on a difficult and detailed subject.”
“Still in the office?” It’s not really a question; Roz can see the familiar contours of Maryam’s workspace in the background. It gives her an odd moment of homesickness.
“Yeah. Not much to go home for, really.”
Hearing the droop in Maryam’s tone, Roz asks, on the spur of the moment, “Hey, why don’t you come out here for a few days? We could use your help, especially with the debate coming up.”
“What—go to the field?” Maryam laughs. “Me? Tech director?”
“Sure! You can work on those codes just as well from here, and a change of scenery might be exactly what you need.”
She can see Maryam chewing on it. “What kind of help do you need with the debate, exactly?”
As Roz describes the situation—the dire lack of Information infrastructure, the continual difficulties with connection, bandwidth, and basic services, the extreme remoteness, all coming into play with this unexpected election—she can feel her friend warming to the idea, but Maryam doesn’t give her a direct answer immediately.
“I’ll think about it” is as far as she’ll go. “Now, I’m sick of always talking about myself. What about you?” Roz is ordering her impressions of the place and the team, but Maryam has a different topic in mind. “Tell me: is there anyone worth looking at there?”
Roz hesitates for a second, which is too long. Maryam pounces. “Aha!”
“No, it’s nothing.” She was thinking of that moment when the governor told her that he would work with them, because they were doing the best they could.
“Who is it?”
“No one.” It seemed minimal at the time, another moment of their careful, friendly diplomatic dance, but it has kept returning to her all day, at odd moments.
“Come on, you might as well tell me.”
“Well…” How should he know they were doing the best they could?
“Yeees?”
“I don’t know if it’s … I don’t know what it is, but … I…”
Maryam waits.
“I don’t know, there’s maybe something … a little weird, a feeling…”
“With?”
“Maybe the centenal governor?” Roz cringes.
Maryam shrieks. “The centenal governor?”
“I know, I know, it’s a bad idea.”
“Terrible. But intriguing. What is he like?”
Roz struggles, then gives up. “I can’t even begin to answer that.”
“Never mind, I will find out myself.”
Roz can see Maryam’s fingers rushing as she starts a search. “Nooo, don’t. It’s nothing.”
“Doesn’t sound like nothing.”
“It is. Anyway, if it was something, it would have to wait until this mission is over.”
Maryam becomes serious. “Is he a suspect in the assassination?”
Roz sighs. “We can’t definitively rule him out yet, but none of us thinks so. He’s almost universally beloved here, and he’s not even running for the head of state position, so unless there’s something we’re not seeing…”
“Are you worried he could be the next target?”
“What? No!” That hadn’t even occurred to Roz, but it’s true: they’ve been assuming that Al-Jabali was targeted because of the head of state position or because of something personal. It could have been because of something at the centenal governorship instead. Roz shivers, and pushes it away. “No. But even without all that, it’s still very inappropriate.”
“Yes,” Maryam agrees. “But all the more fun.”
CHAPTER 16
Mishima doesn’t receive any transmissions from the T-29 she planted in the scarf, but nor does she hear any whiff of rumors about Halliday finding a recording device, so she figures that’s a breakeven. Her other recorders have given her plenty to work with. She does some of the analysis herself, working late into the night in her carefully data-screened hotel room, but there’s too much intel for one person, and tradecraft requires sharing as quickly as possible in case she is caught. Transmitting this kind of data—huge, voice-recognizable—is dangerous even outside of the Heritage headquarters. It’s too easy for someone to watch her comms. Mishima transfers her intel through a series of in-person drops, once at the lakeshore and once in a hotel, but mostly at a number of pleasant outdoor cafés and bars. Setting the meets is easy; once she’s established a code pattern, there is so much data on Information that it’s easy to embed messages into prearranged plazas or trendy feedback sites. Mishima identifies her contacts visually and leaves her minidisks on the underside of tables or chairs or stuck to drink stems or once under a cloth napkin. Honestly, she’s never been a fan of Geneva, but the weather this week is fabulous and they couldn’t have picked a nicer spot for a bit of classic espionage.
If the setting is lovely, the content she finds is dire. Mishima is getting the sense that the idea of leaving micro-democracy has gotten away from the elites who started it as brinksmanship. It has grown in the imagining of the grunt workers, morale has unexpectedly waxed, a
nd suddenly Heritage feels like a superpower again. If the higher-ups did intend this to be a bluff, they’re going to have a hard time walking it back from the excited workers.
Of course, there are others, like Deepal, who are more worried than thrilled. On her fourth day, Deepal works up his gumption and quietly, almost under his breath, while looking at a projection over her shoulder, invites her to a small get-together at a bar after work. He throws in enough winking and nudging to convince her it’s a meeting about resisting, or at least griping over, the planned secession. Mishima swings by the bar before the meet-up and leaves recorders under a couple of tables, but she doesn’t stay. It will almost certainly be monitored, unless Heritage is too busy with all this craziness to even watch feeds. Besides, she has a date.
* * *
Roz didn’t set an alarm, but she wakes as though she had: instantaneous, clear-eyed. She is up and dressed before she thinks about it, and it is only as she is walking toward the compound gate that her steps slow. She is going to get coffee at Zeinab’s and look at the cartoons. That’s what she does in the morning.
Really, she is going to meet Suleyman.
What a terrible idea.
Roz remembers talking about him with Maryam the night before and groans: the aftereffects of confiding something you shouldn’t have, almost as bad as a hangover.
Not that she’s worried about Maryam; even without her own experience with ill-advised liaisons, she’s a good enough friend to be both circumspect and sympathetic. The problem is that in admitting her attraction to Maryam, Roz admitted it to herself.
Her feet are still moving; she is through the gate now and walking down the street, although not as fast as she would like.
She wants to see him. This is bad.
Roz believes in personal responsibility and making her own decisions, so she does not imagine that something tugged her out of bed, chose her favorite of the heat-reflective shirts, guided her steps around the guano splotches under the tree. She could stop, but she doesn’t. There’s no harm in having breakfast, she tells herself, even though she doesn’t believe it.
Roz walks quickly through the market, and then stops, her heels digging into the soft sand, when she rounds Zeinab’s shack and the governor comes into view. Suleyman is sitting at the usual table, turbaned head facing the cartoon wall. Is he waiting for her? No, Roz berates herself, of course not; she’s the one intruding on his routine.
She walks up, making a show of studying the murals. There is a large central panel covering the groundbreaking ceremony for construction of the new mantle tunnel, with detailed maps tracing the proposed route between PhilipMorris centenals in Rome and Cairo. Roz frowns—she had forgotten that was supposed to happen last night. She turns to find Suleyman’s eyes on her, and doesn’t pretend to be surprised.
“Ef camo,” she greets him.
“Wa misha kinehe?” he answers.
Roz laughs, which is more informality than she’d planned to allow today, but he says it so seriously and smoothly, she’s sure he’s been practicing. And those words sound like home. “Hot, and early,” she says in Kiswahili.
The governor grins, which feels like another step too far. “Coffee, then?” he suggests, slipping back into his usual mix of Fur and Arabic.
“Actually,” Roz says, panicking a little. “I have some things I should do, so I’m going to get back. I just wanted to…” She waves her hand at the murals.
“Of course,” Suleyman says. There’s no hint of surprise or disappointment in his voice, and Roz berates herself again. He can’t be flirting with her—really, why would he?—and if he’s not interested, then her own silly little infatuation is all but harmless.
There’s a pause, and Roz is about to say something leave-taking-ish when the governor adds, “Oh, there is one thing I wanted to mention to you.” Roz nods, and puts on a professional listening face. “As you know, we will be hosting the debate here, with visitors from many other DarFur centenals. I am planning a feast after the debate for all the candidates, and I was hoping your team would join us.”
That’s easy enough. “That would be lovely,” Roz agrees. “We’ll have earned it if we get through the debate without any technological failures or security incidents.”
Suleyman looks worried at that, so she smiles to reassure him, although she didn’t mean it as a joke. And that reminds her … “By the way, I wanted to ask you something also. I was thinking I might like to…” She’s oddly embarrassed. “… to buy a toub, you know, to wear while I’m here.”
His smile widens immediately. “That’s a wonderful idea! You would look very beautiful.”
Roz coughs, wishing she had retreated while she had the chance. “I—well, I just thought I might like it. But you don’t think people would be offended, or … think it was ridiculous?”
“No, no, no, not at all. In fact, I think it might help…” He trails off.
Roz reviews the conversation internally, decides that he didn’t engineer this to get her to stay, sighs, and signals the boy standing by the lean-to for a coffee. “Help with…?” Roz nods questioningly at the chair, and he immediately motions for her to sit down. “Is there resentment around our presence here?”
Roz already knows the answer; she would have been pretty confident about the answer even before she arrived in Kas. The question is how widespread and how deep the grudge. She’s surprised when he takes his time considering, long enough for her coffee to arrive.
“I’m not sure … resentment?—is the right word,” he says finally. “Perhaps more mistrust.”
“And you think my wearing the local dress will help with that?”
“Yes,” Suleyman says. “Not fix it, no. But people like to see that you are paying attention to what’s around you, not simply … applying a template that you have used in a dozen other places.”
Roz lets out a guffaw. “I don’t think there’s any template for this situation,” she says, and then feels her face go hot, because that could be misinterpreted, couldn’t it? She takes a quick sip from her cup, burning the tip of her tongue.
The governor doesn’t seem to notice. “I believe that wearing a toub would show an openness to our culture.”
“Well, if that’s the case, then I’ll go shopping.” There’s a pause after that, and then, worrying that he might think she’s hoping he’ll offer to help, she goes on. “Any further ideas about the assassination?” As she says it, she remembers the other unsettling part of the conversation with Maryam last night, and adds, “Have you considered that you might be in danger?”
His eyebrows go up in surprise or disbelief—the interpreter is ambiguous on this point—and then he laughs. “I’m accustomed to that.”
* * *
Ken finds Geneva pleasantly cool and autumnal after the south of Spain, but, unlike the latter, entirely lacking in beat. The city is already quiet at ten P.M. Maybe this centenal has some kind of noise-control policy?
Mishima leans out from the shadow of a doorway. “Hey,” she says.
Ken looks up. It takes him a second to recognize her, but only a second, and not only because of her hair, though it is loose and inky dark around her face. She’s wearing a wide-brimmed black hat, made from that new processed-kelp stuff that holds like felt but has a silky sheen. Her collarless trench, shaped seamlessly along her body, falls open just enough for him to guess that her matte black dress is strapless.
“Hey,” he answers, catching his stride and swinging around toward her. He has nothing else to say: he’s still too busy looking.
She steps out, puts her hands on his shoulders—she’s wearing opera gloves too, he has got to get her somewhere he can get that coat off of her—and kisses his mouth like it’s nothing, like that’s how they always greet each other. Which it is. Then she falls into step with him. “What are we doing?”
Ken finds himself back on the train of thought he was following before he saw her. “Is it just me or is this town dead?”
&nbs
p; “Pretty much,” Mishima says. “RépubliqueLéman centenals are a bit better, and the EuroVision centenal supposedly has some amazing underground spots, but I haven’t had the chance to find out where.” Something else you can’t ask Information: where the cool kids play.
“I hear there are nice hotels, though.” Ken can’t help himself.
She grins at him. “There are. Wanna see?”
* * *
It is fortunate that Minzhe didn’t expect much excitement in the barracks, because he spends most of his days trying not to win too badly at cards and inventing improbable and occasionally pornographic text games to entertain himself. (A gorgeous man stumbles into the barracks, his jellabiya torn to show his rippling muscles. “Help me,” he whispers before passing out at your feet, a crumpled paper map clutched in his fist. What do you do?)
Over the last three days, the only assignments they get are the removal of a dead donkey from one of the main streets; the brief imprisoning of a young man, brought to them by his father, who has broken his promise of engagement to a woman in the next town; and an accusation of petty theft by one of the shopkeepers, which is quickly traced to an outstanding quarrel that can be smoothed over. Abdul Gasig, the merchant candidate for head of state, has also called them twice about supposed break-ins to one of his businesses, but each time, they find nothing and spend more time drinking tea and chatting than they did searching.
For all the reasons that he’s happy to be back in this region, he’s also starting to remember why he left.
In the meantime, Roz is on him to find out why Commander Hamid suddenly decided to run for head of state after all. He has no idea how to do that, given that the commander shows little inclination to talk to him and the other guys generally avoid talking about the commander. Feeling useless, Minzhe eases up on the card games and shifts from text-based fantasies to eyeball-level hacking. When that proves less productive than he had hoped—their record-keeping is unsurprisingly poor—he starts snooping around the barracks instead. Sneaking into dark rooms when he hopes no one is watching gives him chills up his spine and makes him feel intrepid. Maybe he’ll find something of use to Roz, and if not to her, then to someone else.