Philip took the unopened letter into the kitchen, sat down in a chair and let shame wash over him. He was naked. He slept in the nude. He liked being naked. He liked plunging his lean, battles-carred body into cold swimming pools and angry women. He’d made one take a shower with him once – a cold shower – and then refused to fuck her just to show how strong he was. He’d thought about doing that with Allison, only she might have misinterpreted it. Cassandra probably knew all that about him. If she didn’t, he’d have to tell her. The only way to deal with her was to tell her everything. But it was Friday, so he’d have to wait. He didn’t mind waiting. It was another way of being strong.
Might as well open the letter. There was nothing in it but a blank piece of paper, wrapped around a photograph. It was a picture of Sheik Fawzi, kneeling and kissing Maloof’s hand – the latter in full Arab regalia, with some dubious-looking characters standing around him, dressed in fatigues, with short hair, looking French. The one standing next to Maloof had a cigarette in his mouth. It could have been a still from a grade-B movie, but Philip was pretty sure they were not pretend soldiers.
The photographer had caught Fawzi looking up at Maloof – who evidently was Suleiman, as Philip had tried to avoid concluding – with a grade-B actor’s version of a fawning expression. It didn’t look like anyone in the room was fooled, but that didn’t matter. This was more than footsie. There was now a rather large hole in Fawzi’s claims of loyalty. Why in the world had he allowed himself to be photographed in that situation?
Philip put on his running clothes. He would go into the desert and think. Running would also help with the Cassandra problem. She could say what she liked about survival not being an adequate objective, but if you allied yourself to something difficult enough, it gave you your bearings. “I have run fifteen miles” was a better epitaph for the day than “I am unhappy.”
Philip put his pistol into his backpack, along with his water bottle and compass. He wasn’t sure what he planned to do yet, but he’d better get some target practice.
Cassandra probably wasn’t even up. He was tempted to drive into town and show her the bruise on the inside of his thigh. It looked pretty horrifying and he felt like horrifying someone. He didn’t feel like undressing, though. He didn’t think he’d do that again. Maybe he should teach her to shoot and have her kill Fawzi. And if she liked humiliating men so much, she could make him undress first.
It occurred to Philip, as he was preparing for his run, that the game he and Cassandra had played the previous afternoon had probably been hard on her as well. He should probably think about that. But once he got outside he didn’t.
An hour later, he was back at his antiseptic house, having done about eight miles and not having had target practice. Killing Fawzi seemed to be what he’d been sent to Alidar for. Which evidently needed doing. And no one else was available. America had such a small embassy that all the economic attachés really were economic attachés. Ibrahim’s army was new to stealth. The Lady Assassin worked for someone else. Let’s send Cooper.
Philip considered being angry with Arthur for not explaining, but decided it would be a waste of time. They hadn’t had the evidence. Or they’d needed Philip to play Sergeant Webster for a while. Or they’d wanted to watch Fawzi to see what he did. Or whatever. Now that they were ready, His Majesty would presumably take action. But in the interim, Philip had had no “need to know.”
So he cleaned himself up and drove to the Palace and spoke to Isa. The king saw him right away. “Disconcerting behaviour,” said His Majesty after studying the photograph, “in the man who controls the police.”
“It is not my decision,” said Philip.
“Don’t leave any footprints,” said Mubarek.
The answer to that was obvious.
COMMAND
32
Finally meeting the Arthur person, who has come to Alidar in Fawzi’s honour, I understand better some of what troubles Philip. They see bits of themselves in each other – at some level they envy each other – but where Arthur is made for success, Philip I fear is not.
Failure? It is a concept I am at home with, but I do not like using the word about Philip. Let me say only that his life is a battle. I have never asked him about his military experience. That at least, I suspect, came naturally. There is plenty of violence inside him. Pleasing him is so easy one feels one has magical powers. Arthur, I believe, could not be seduced. The violence in him takes the form of self-control. Presumably that is why he and Mubarek get along.
They have found no sign of the Lady Assassin. The American girl who runs with Philip chased after her, once she determined that Fawzi was dead, but the streets of the souk were very crowded, it being near closing time, and in black, as she said to Elliot, they all look the same. The soldiers who watch my house thought they saw an individual somewhat earlier whom they describe as “tall for a woman, but not that tall.” Which would even fit me. The prince has questioned them personally and assures us they know nothing else.
I learn all this at the luncheon party Mubarek gives for the Arthur person, to which Philip and Abdulrahman and I are all invited. Ian Elliot is not invited. I suppose he is considered a servant – and I am not.
Why the American girl who runs with Philip was talking to Fawzi when the Lady Assassin struck attracted brief attention. Philip says he thought she always avoided the prime minister. Mubarek had Elliot talk to her. She says it was a chance encounter. They were both headed for his foolish restaurant, and she thought it would be impolite to ignore him. Or impolitic. Or one of those words people use who make explanations for things. Mubarek seems satisfied.
Why Fawzi was murdered is evidently not a mystery. He was the logical next step in Suleiman’s program of destabilisation. His death will alarm everyone. Also, it leaves the police without anyone to report to. They have not yet decided what to do about that, though it is clear that Ibrahim wants the job.
They have decided about the census. It is being cancelled – in light of Fawzi’s death.
“There is no one to vouch for Dr. Maloof,” says the prince. “It was Fawzi who introduced us.”
Mubarek is silent.
“He told me not to mention it,” says Ibrahim.
“You mean Sheik Fawzi recommended you not mention it.”
“Yes, father.”
“And why did you take his advice?”
“You always did, father. And I didn’t know what else to do. And I sometimes find that observation satisfies my curiosity better than argument.”
I can tell Mubarek likes this answer, but he covers his approval with a yawn.
Later, when we are alone in his study, Mubarek says to me, “Fawzi would not have introduced the Zaathi to my son without knowing who he was.” He shows me a photograph: Fawzi, looking particularly unattractive, with the tall Arab, who is evidently both Maloof and Suleiman.
“It came from a reliable source,” he says. “Even if Fawzi did this for a joke, it means Suleiman had a hold on him. It is convenient that Suleiman had him killed. We cannot afford a prime minister who flirts with our enemies. But I think we’ll keep the photograph to ourselves. Better to bury Fawzi as a loyal servant.”
After a bit he continues. “I suppose the Americans knew who Maloof was. Know who he is. Their resources are impressive. Is it unfriendly of them not to have told me? Should I be angry at the Americans, Cassandra?”
I tell him I do not think anger would suit him. He likes that.
“One must make allowances for large countries,” he says. “No doubt the Americans meant to tell me but it slipped their mind. Perhaps that is why they sent the photograph. Perhaps that is what Mr. Allison has come for.”
It occurs to me, which I say, that the Arthur person has come to take Philip home.
“He mentioned that,” says Mubarek. “He asked whether Cooper was proving satisfactory, whether there would be work for him to do with Fawzi gone, whether we thought we needed him for the full two years.”
Mubarek looks at me, but I say nothing.
“I told him we are pleased with Cooper, that if Mr. Allison needs him, of course we will release him, but that there were still things for him to do, especially now. He has become a friend to Ibrahim, you know.”
I ask what the Arthur person said.
“He changed the subject.”
What if I had to seduce the Arthur person? What if Philip said, or Mubarek more likely, “Cassandra, I need a favour?”
But the Arthur person is beyond flattery. It wouldn’t work. He knows he is a physically unattractive person. He is very cleareyed. Perhaps one could get under his skin by undressing him, by acknowledging his ugliness and not minding – which is what he would always have dreamed of. We would be sitting in a living room. In the middle of the day. “We are both professionals,” I would say, as I loosened his tie. “Let us see who is the more dispassionate. I will make it my business to so arouse and satisfy you that you remember this afternoon with humility and gratitude the rest of your life. And you will make it your business to maintain your composure so perfectly that I feel inadequate and gauche, to accept pleasure as you take on useful but undistinguished clients.”
And what would he say back? He would say I was a foolish, self-indulgent girl, and would not let me go on. I would be the ugly and naked one. The Arthur person has contempt for his own feelings – a dangerous capacity. I believe he wishes he could teach it to Philip.
There is also, at the luncheon, discussion of the possibility of war. Abdulrahman defers to Philip on this topic. Philip says only that he hopes there will not be a war. The Arthur person approves of that response. Personally, I have always assumed there would be a war.
My little Fatima pipes up and says the brothers of her friends do not believe there will be a war because Suleiman does not have the equipment to launch an invasion – one wonders how they know that – and besides, the Americans will not let them. Hopeful glance at the Arthur person, who ignores her.
“Mahmoud Faloom would not agree,” says the prince.
“Who?” says Fatima.
“A merchant I met at a party.”
“What party?” says Fatima. This was a dinner Philip arranged for Ibrahim, so that the prince could meet some normal people. Meaning that he met some Buhara merchants. But no one answers Fatima.
“What does this Mahmoud Faloom say?” says Mubarek.
“He says the Zaathi will have all the equipment he needs within a month. And he puts little faith in the Americans. I mean no disrespect to our guests, but that is what he thinks.”
“And what do you think, Ibrahim?” says Mubarek.
“I would say that if the Zaathi do invade, and God wills it, we will prevail. Especially if they become overconfident and invade too soon.”
This brings a silence upon the whole table until the prince speaks again.
“Would you agree, Cooper?”
For answer, Philip only smiles. Having known famous soldiers, I recognise that smile. So, I realise, does the Arthur person. He has a full appreciation of Philip’s gifts, and despite his utilitarian mask, the prospect of their further employment fills him with the helplessness of a parent. I do not think he saw me notice that. It makes me feel differently about him.
“Will you have a draft, Father?” says Fatima. “Some of my friends say you will have to.”
“That will be up to your brother,” says Mubarek. “What do your friends say?”
“They say...” Fatima pauses. “I do not think they are ready for that.”
“Probably not,” says Mubarek.
I reflect that I have heard a death sentence passed on the youth of Alidar – viscounts and Bedouins, ready or not. There is no knowing how awful it will be, once it starts. Even if the Americans come, there will be a lot of destruction, a lot of killing.
It is impossible to be British and not have the Great War in your consciousness. There is the poem of Wilfred Owen’s that ends with a reference to “that old lie, dulce et decorum est, pro patria mori.” I am in the business of old lies. What is so sweet about soldiers is the way they pretend not to mind.
At dusk I walk through the deserted souk to the Ministry offices, and visit Fawzi’s ghost. He was a good man, if bizarre. His involvement with this Suleiman had become a burden, I expect. His ghost does not seem to be angry with Philip for having killed him. Or with Mubarek for having had it done.
That Philip was his angel of death I have no doubt, though everyone pretends otherwise. He wanted to touch me yesterday, sitting on the floor of the office after work. Wanted to touch my breasts. Which I let him do. Quite a pleasant sensation. All at once he fell asleep. I stayed with him until he woke up an hour later, looking like a small boy.
Also, there is the matter of my chador’s disappearance from the back of the file drawer I kept it in. Happily, no one but Philip knows I owned one. I had thought to use it as a blanket to cover him. I honestly hadn’t looked in the drawer before. But I suppose I knew I wouldn’t find it.
33
Allison thought she was saved. Fawzi, who might have known what she was, was dead. And Philip had killed him in so perfect a way. Being in the business herself, she was in awe. There she had been, talking to Fawzi as they made their way to Ian’s Restaurant, when a perfect imitation of herself in Lady Assassin guise had stumbled out of a shop, scattering onions and cooking pots, making a terrible noise that caused Allison to step back. Then the woman in the chador had bumped into Fawzi, and Fawzi had slumped to the ground. And the “Lady Assassin” was gone. Allison couldn’t have done it better herself. But what was so wonderful is that Philip would have assumed that Allison was in Ian’s Restaurant, on display, eating breadsticks, at the moment he struck. She always went to Ian’s on Saturdays and Wednesdays. She always got there ahead of the crowd. He knew that. She’d have an alibi. She’d be cleared. In the event, she was running late, but that was even better. She’d got to see him work.
He must have been surprised to see her with Fawzi – not that it mattered. She’d been equally surprised to see him. Or to be accurate, to have this apparition in black appear. She hadn’t, honestly, recognised him. And she hadn’t seen it coming, any more than poor Fawzi had.
She supposed she could say, “poor Fawzi.”
The prospect of actually having Philip overwhelmed her. Pretty soon she would be leaving a note on the kitchen table: “Dear Tommy, you are better off without me. Tell your parents they were terrific. I’ll mail you the divorce papers.” She had written it several different ways, but it always came out scattered like that. Allison knew that scattered was not a quality to cultivate in her profession, but what the hell, she’d never been in love before.
Allison had no idea what they were going to do, actually. Just an assumption that they would leave Alidar, and a conviction that everything would be fine after that.
She was confident it had been Philip. Same size and height, same quickness. Comfortable shooting someone. Left-handed. Allison had seen the gun for no more than half a second, but the whole episode was vivid in her memory.
She’d assumed Philip still worked, and this proved her right. He must have been sent for this exact purpose. And whatever they were waiting for, once they had it, Philip acted.
Ironic, really, that Allison had been making the same plans herself. That’s why she had been with Fawzi in the first place. She wanted to learn the route he took from his office. She’d had the same idea as Philip. The souk would be crowded. Escape would be easy.
The only problem was that she couldn’t ever share that with him. He didn’t know about her other life – mustn’t know, ever – despite how intoxicating it was to imagine that his disguise and timing had all been for her benefit.
Always assume you are being watched, Maloof had taught her. So she continued her routine, and went to Ian’s. Custom was down. The proprietor invited her to sit at his table.
“So what are you wearing to the prom, honeybun?” said Ian.
>
“I don’t think I’ll go. Tommy’s away.”
“Oh, but you have so many friends. They will all be disappointed.”
“I have no friends,” she said, thinking of Sally Valentine. How could you call someone a friend when you’d tried to kill her? Even if she didn’t know. Even if you’d missed.
“Well, I think you have one friend,” said Ian, looking down as he said it so his voice wouldn’t carry. “And congratulations.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said, not very convincingly.
“I try to know my customers,” he said. “Besides, tout Alidar will be dying to know what you’re going to wear. Running shorts, perhaps?”
The “prom,” as he called it, was being organised by the Honourable George. You were supposed to wear a costume. There would be voting on who had the best ones. There was a suggestion that the costumes should be slightly naughty – revealing fantasies if not body parts. A number of single women had supposedly agreed to auction their costumes off. The Honourable George knew how to throw a good party. Allison was quite honestly not in the mood however.
“If Tom were in town,” Ian continued, “he could come in running shorts too, and dye his hair yellow.”
“Bastard,” said Allison.
“Now, honeybun, you and I have no secrets.”
Allison reminded herself that going to Ian’s Restaurant was part of her job – Maloof always wanted fresh gossip – and letting Ian tease her was part of how she did it.
“So what’s the latest buzz about Fawzi’s murder?” she asked.
“A lot of people aren’t that unhappy,” he said.
“It’s not doing your restaurant any good.”
“This is true, honeybun, but I have to assume that some of those to whom power is redistributed will also choose to come here and let me buy them lunch. Ian’s will remain an interesting place.” He got up as he said this. A cabinet minister was coming through the door, and Ian needed to greet him.
Submission Page 16