My Brother's Keeper

by Charles Sheffield

  I paused. At the mention of Nymphs, Cyril Meecham's face had turned white. He might not be a senior instrument of evil, but I would bet my Brahms that he knew more than somewhat about the use of Nymphs. Young Cyril had his own guilty secrets.

  "I think my brother must have been in touch with this man, Mansouri," I went on. "And he pretended that he was in the drug business himself. He had been working with a bunch of drug dealers in England, trying to see how their operations were run. Did you ever hear of somebody called Scouse—head of an English gang who imports drugs? He's a sort of Liverpool Arab, speaks English and Arabic."

  Not too surprisingly, Meecham shook his head vigorously. He didn't want that association at all.

  "Never heard of him."

  "He thought my brother was a dealer in Nymphs. But then they heard of something that looked like a much bigger deal. They both went after it, but my brother Leo beat Scouse's group to it. He escaped with it from India and came here. If anyone did manage to trace him, they would assume that he had brought the goods to show to Abdi Mansouri. But he didn't go to Mansouri. I confirmed that this morning. He went somewhere else, and hid the package he had with him."

  While I was speaking, Meecham had been leafing through a fat binding of computer listings. He looked up at me, his face now skeptical and wary.

  "I hear what you say, but I don't believe it. You said that your brother was here six months ago, right? There's no sign of any Salkind entering or leaving this country during that period."

  "His name was Foss—we were raised separately. And he could have been here travelling under a false name," I added, as he looked again at the listing and shook his head.

  "No Foss in here." He slammed the directory shut again. "Look, Mr. Salkind, I'm doing my best to give you the benefit of the doubt—but it's not easy. I've never heard such a bloody weird story in my life. You don't want the Science Attaché, you want the flying carpets department." His freckled face was turning redder. "As for the false name idea, we keep close tabs on all travellers with British passports travelling into and out of this country. There's no way he'd get in with a false name and a false passport, and we'd not know it and record it."

  "He wouldn't be here on a British passport. I didn't mention it, but he's a naturalized American, born in England. So that list of yours—"

  I paused. Cyril Meecham had sat down hard in his chair. He was glaring at me with the old reserved-for-hopeless-idiots expression.

  "An American? A bloody American? Why the hell didn't you tell me that to start with?" His bushy eyebrows were stretching upwards towards his carroty hairline, and his voice went higher and higher. "Your brother is an American. All right. But then why waste my time with questions I can't answer?"

  He stood up again.

  "Mr. Salkind, you're in the wrong place. Did it never occur to you that you'll do a damned sight better to take your tale of undoubted woe to where it belongs—to the American bloody embassy?"

  - 16 -

  I must have sat there gaping at him for half a minute. What Cyril Meecham said was so obviously right and rational that I couldn't understand why it had to be told to me.

  Imagine what I would do in Leo's place, then carry it to action. Reasonable enough—but I had been too stupid or too exhausted to allow for undeniable real differences in our backgrounds.

  On every trip to a foreign capital I made a habit of visiting the local embassy. They would give me good free advice on hotels, restaurants, and local tourist traps and rip-offs, and if I ever ran into trouble with the locals the embassy staff knew me and were ready to bail me out. Leo would probably follow my pattern abroad—but as an American citizen he would check in with the U.S. embassies.

  Cyril Meecham let me use the phone before I left. The snake-eyed receptionist at the hotel confirmed that the young lady I was so interested in had not yet left her room—did I want to leave a message for her? I thought of Zan's full red lips, of her agate eyes measuring my body as I sat on the bed in Belur's house.

  No thank you, no message; definitely no message.

  But keep an eye open for her. I would call again later.

  Hurry.

  I emerged from the British Embassy into the full heat of early afternoon. Even this late in the year the sun turned everything to a shimmer of baked air. The southwest part of the city had been built before the sprinklers and abundant supply of fresh water turned Riyadh to a riot of lush garden greenery. There was still dust here, dust and lung-crippling clouds of photochemical smog from cars and trucks.

  My taxi driver didn't need any urging to drive fast—he wanted to find some shaded spot where the long wait for a passenger was more tolerable. We made the usual death-defying run through the network of narrow one-way streets and broad boulevards.

  The American Embassy stood only a block from the old palace of Nasiriya. There was my real stamping ground, inside the palace walls where the original royal zoo had been extended to provide well-designed habitats for every beast that walked or swam the earth or ocean. The aquarium held a dozen fresh and salt water pools, hundreds of yards long, where the visitor could find everything from humpback whales to Lake Baikal seals. Lions prowled the pseudosavannah, and polar bears fished live cod from deep, icy waters. The estimates to create the new zoo ranged from hundreds of millions to billions, and its maintenance called for a permanent working staff of two hundred people.

  It was a zoophile's paradise. Perhaps it said most about my lack of social graces that I had been to the Riyadh Zoo half a dozen times, but this would be my first visit to the U.S. Embassy.

  Again I told the taxi driver to wait, and walked down the shaded avenue that separated zoo and embassy. A chorus of roars, barks and grunts came from the enclosures to my left; feeding time. I had the sudden heart-stopping desire to turn that way, go on through the zoo gate instead of into the embassy, back to the familiar world that I had inhabited before the accident. This wasn't me at all, running from beautiful sadists in a frantic search for who-knows-what. I was cut out for the quiet life.

  **But I'm so close, I can't stop now. Keep going.**

  Whose thought was that?

  I went on towards the embassy, past the lines of beggars that not even Riyadh's gigantic wealth had been able to eliminate. An honorable calling. Sightless, armless, legless, they sat head down against the walls, shaded by shrubs that grew along the tops. Two little metal bowls stood in front of each man.

  I hardly glanced at them, even when one rose suddenly from almost beneath my feet and scuffled away along the street with his empty bowls tucked away under a withered left arm. That was my mistake, and I would pay for it later, but my attention was all on the moving digits of my watch.

  Three o'clock. Despite my instructions to the driver to hurry, two and a half hours had now passed since I left the Intercontinental.

  Time runs, the clock will strike, the devil will come . . . If I couldn't track down the Belur Package by six, I had to get back to the hotel and follow Zan and Scouse in their next move.

  The embassy entrance lay a little off Beggars' Row in a narrow cul-de-sac. A blind brick wall closed off the end, with a coffee shop on the right-hand side and the big double doors of the embassy on the left. Marine guards stood just within the gates, by a huge sign in English and Arabic announcing that beyond this point lay the sovereign soil of the United States. A much smaller sign warned visitors that the embassy closed at four-thirty, and all non-U.S. nationals had to be outside by then. My time was squeezing down, tighter and tighter. And I was feeling ghastly, wondering how long I could last before I just toppled over into the dirt. I needed to get some food and drink into me.

  **Coffee. Go in there, into the shop on the right.**

  I actually took a couple of steps in that direction, then halted and stared at the bottle-green shop window. Coffee? I rubbed at my aching eyes. Nice to have some, but this was the worst time in the world to look for it. Afterwards, when I was done in the embassy—the place should st
ill be open at four-thirty. I turned back to the embassy gates.

  Some bright ideas just don't work out the way they ought to. In the next two hours I talked to fourteen embassy staff, not counting the two young Marines who started me on my rounds. Science Attaché, Commercial Attaché, Counsellor, First and Second Secretary, Military Attaché—they were all very polite and totally uncommunicative.

  Leo Foss? No, we didn't know about the accident—very sorry to hear it, he came by the embassy now and again. Very sharp man, knew exactly how the natives operate.

  The last time? Well, let's check the file here. Over a year ago. No, we haven't seen anything of him since then.

  Easy to see you're his brother—older brother, I suppose? Leave a package here six months ago? What kind of package? No, we didn't see it—who would he have left it with? Never heard of anything like that in this department.

  It was clear that Leo had not been a person greatly popular at the embassy. For one thing, he was much too fluent in Arabic to let the staff there feel at ease. What did you do with an odd fellow who knew more about the country and its people than you did? Two of the men I saw recognized me as Lionel Salkind, pianist, and tried to steer the conversation towards music and away from the dull matter of my brother. Was I planning any concerts here soon? Riyadh needed more western influence. There were some ICA funds available if I was interested . . .

  I squirmed free, went to the next Attaché, asked the same questions.

  Nothing. Not a nibble. Four-thirty came, and I was quietly shown to the main exit. Come again when you are in Riyadh. Let us know in advance, and we'll make sure that we have a recital in the embassy. Sorry to hear about your brother . . .

  I was standing by the double gates again, going through the rituals of a polite farewell. My head was an inferno. As the doors swung to behind me I leaned against one of the pillars and damned the American Embassy and all its staff to perdition. Over a year ago. So Leo had not come here on his last trip. He had been—where?

  I walked to the end of the cul-de-sac and looked around me. Beggars' Row was empty now, the crippled line of human wreckage melted away in the late afternoon sun. Beyond the chest-high wall across the main avenue, feeding time at the Zoo was over and the whole street was quiet now. I turned and looked back toward the embassy. In the two hours that I had been inside the sun had swung through thirty degrees in the sky, to throw a harsh light onto the front of the coffee shop. A faded beige awning had been moved out to shield the exposed window. Across the top ran a line of Arabic lettering, and lower down there was a crude oil painting of a tall glass with two bright green fruit being squeezed into it . . .

  I was hurrying back to the embassy, hammering frantically on the big double doors. Was it already too late?

  One of the doors cracked open a few inches.

  "We're closed until eight o'clock tomorrow." It was one of the young Marines.

  "I know. The coffee shop there—what's it called?"

  He stared at me. "Called? I don't know the Arabic, but in English all the people here call it `The Limes.' See the sign?"

  The Limes. Not zeroes, eggs, lemons, balloons or walnuts—Leo had drawn limes. Two of them, staring back at me in vivid green from the sun-bleached awning.

  As I walked across to the open door I glanced again at my watch. Four forty-five. I was too excited to notice that the taxi left waiting for me in the avenue was no longer there.

  Close up, the wrinkles showed. The door of the coffee shop was beginning to shed its blistered green paint and the letters of the menu just inside were faded by sunlight. Within, the bench-lined room was cool and dim. The awning and thick green window glass cut off most of the sun, so my eyes took a few seconds to adjust.

  "You wanta ha-lunch, sir-ha?" A waiter, thin and ancient, stood at the door and addressed me in his idea of English—he must have seen me coming over from the American embassy.

  I nodded. "Coffee. Lots of it. And do you have pastry or sweet cakes?" My blood sugar badly needed a boost.

  "Ha-past-ery. Sa-weatcakes? Yes." The forehead wrinkled in perplexity and he scurried away through a door in the back. What would come back was anybody's guess.

  I would have guessed wrong. What came back was a small, barrel-shaped woman with a cheerful, wrinkled face and a generous Jewish nose. She took two steps into the room, put her hands on her hips and glared at me.

  "Sweet cakes, eh? I ought to 'ave known it. Leo, you are very bad man. When you die you go to 'ell for sure. Why you playin' games with me an' poor old Fazil?"

  **Narjes** The name came as another random impulse in my mind, accompanied by a feeling of warmth and affection.

  She came close, wrapped her arms about me, and hugged hard enough to make my tender ribs creak. Over her shoulder she shouted a brusque order to the waiter, who hurried in and placed sweetened coffee in front of me, together with a big plate of powdered sugar biscuits. Then she scowled at me as I took a life-restoring gulp of hot coffee and crammed two of the biscuits into my mouth.

  "You come 'ere an' eat like pig, eh? An' you think Rabiyah still like you, mebbe? What you think she bin doin' while you gone, sit 'ere an' wait? She 'as other men want 'er, all time. You think she want to stay an' 'ang aroun' upstairs for you?"

  My left eye suddenly winked at her as I was cramming two more biscuits into my mouth. She reached out a tobacco-stained finger and thumb and pinched a fold of my cheek affectionately.

  "Leo, you are bad bastard. I tell 'er, don' think about 'im, he cocking leg over woman someplace else, like 'orny bastard. I warn Rabiyah, but she stupid. Me, I know what you are like."

  When I sat and stared at her, my mouth still full, she shook her head. "Where you been this time? You look 'orrible. An' why you sit there like an old goat? Why you not talkin' to me?"

  **Rabiyah. Pale skin, untouched by the sun; luscious body, the breasts and hips too heavy for western tastes. Notice how the lecherous eyes follow her at Embassy parties. Watch her laugh, a pink, meaty tongue quivering between even white teeth.**

  I cleared my throat and spoke in a hoarse voice. "I'm feeling horrible, Narjes—even worse than I look. But I need to see Rabiyah quickly. Where is she?"

  "Where you think she is? It still afternoon, right? She sleepin', like other girls. Don' you try an' see 'er—she need rest. She's working woman. She got work to do tonight." Narjes shook a finger at me. "You 'orrible man, Leo, I tol' Rabiyah that whole lots of time. You want to see 'er now? O.K. You pay like rest of men pay."

  **The package. She has it. Rabiyah has the package.**

  I reached into my jacket, pulled out my wallet, and dropped a fat bundle of riyals next to the tray of sweets. Narjes looked at them and her brown face twisted with rage.

  "What the 'ell that? Leo, you try to make me real angry, eh? You doin' it. You better learn now, you never try offer money again. Or I call an' we get Tughril come in 'ere an' throw you out on your skinny ass, an' I tell Rabiyah how bad you insult me, an' you never get see 'er anymore. You hear?" She jerked her head at me imperiously. "Come on. You follow me, an' keep your big mouth shut. We got girls sleep up here."

  She led the way through the back door of the shop and turned left up a broad staircase. On the upper landing the building changed character completely. The old, fly-specked look of the lower floor was replaced by wall-hung carpets, brass lanterns hung from the pink and gold ceiling, and thick curtains that cut off all outside light from the windows. We walked over the thick pile of a gorgeous Baluchi rug, quietly past a row of closed doors. Narjes stopped at the fourth one along.

  "In here. If she got brain at all she tell you bugger off an' don' come back. An' whatever you do, don' make no noise. We got people try to sleep—me too 'til you give Fazil hard time down there."

  She opened the door without knocking and pushed me inside. The room was completely dark. I had a sudden moment of terror and total disorientation.

  **Arriving in the middle of the night. Afraid. Mansouri and Scouse on my t
rail, afraid to wait until dawn to go across to the Embassy. Sanctuary, the safety of this room, this house . . .**

  "Who is that?" The voice from in front of me was a sleep-edged murmur.

  I moved forward until I was at the end of the bed.

  "Narjes?" There was a sound of creaking bedsprings, then a thick curtain on my left opened a crack. Evening sunlight streamed in. The girl on the broad bed gave a little mutter of complaint and shielded her eyes with one hand. Her skin had the pale fineness that goes only with true burnished-copper hair, and her figure defeated the modest intention of the green nightdress.

  She yawned, squinted up at me through half-open blue eyes. A sudden gasp, and she lifted herself from the pile of thick pillows.

  "Leo! When did you get here? Narjes didn't tell me you were in Riyadh."

  "She didn't know until a few minutes ago." A true enough statement. I had already made the decision that this was not the time to explain that I was Lionel, not Leo. If somebody realized that for themselves, fair enough. I knew of only one infallible way to prove I was not Leo, and that worked only with someone like Ameera, who knew him inside out, in intimate detail. But as I learned more of my brother's past, the number of people with access to that mode of identification seemed to be growing rapidly.

  "I'm just passing through Riyadh," I went on. "But I had to see you. Rabiyah, do you remember I had a package with me last time I was here?"

  "Package?" The big blue eyes were still sleepy, but at least they were wide open and looking at me with a puzzled expression.

  My spirits sank to a new low. This was my last hope. If Rabiyah didn't have the Belur Package, I had run out of all ideas on where to look for it. I might as well give up, go back to the hotel and let Zan carve me up into little pieces.

  "Some kind of package," I said desperately. "Don't you remember? I came here late at night."