The Exile Kiss

by George Alec Effinger

  "Good, my friend," I said. "You'll be well rewarded."

  Bin Turki nodded, taking back the name tag. "We spoke about a position that would provide me with a regular income. I'm coming to appreciate the sophisticated ways of the city. I think I will stay here for a while, before I return to the Bani Salim."

  "We will be glad to have you among us," I said. "I wish to reward your clan, too, for their boundless hospitality and kindness, when we were abandoned in the Sands. I was thinking of building a settlement for them, possibly near that oasis—"

  "No, O Shaykh," he said. "Shaykh Hassanein would never accept such a gift. A few people did leave the Bani Salim and build houses of concrete blocks, and we see them once or twice a year as we pass through their villages. Most of the tribe, however, clings to the old ways. That is Shaykh Hassanein's decision, too. We know about the luxuries of electricity and gas ovens, but we are Bedu. We would not trade our camels for trucks, and we would not trade our goat-hair tents for a house that bound us to one place."

  "I never thought the Bani Salim would live the whole year at the settlement," I said. "But maybe the tribe might like to have comfortable quarters at the end of its yearly migration."

  Bin Turki smiled. "Your thoughts are well intentioned, but the gift you imagine would be deadly to the Bani Salim."

  "As you say, bin Turki."

  He stood up and grasped my hand. "I will let you rest now, O Shaykh."

  "Go with safety, my nephew," I said.

  "Allah yisallimak," he said, and left the room.

  About seven o'clock that evening, the phone rang. Kmuzu answered it. "It's Dr. Besharati," he said.

  "Let me see if I can hold the phone," I said. I took it from him and was clumsily able to put it to my ear. "Marhaba," I said.

  "Mr. Audran? Your suspicions are correct. The cardiac rupture patterns of Khalid Maxwell and the boy are identical. There is no doubt in my mind that they were murdered with the same static pistol."

  I stared across the room for a few seconds, lost in thought. "Thank you, Dr. Besharati," I said at last.

  "Of course, this doesn't prove that the same individual was using the gun in both cases."

  "No, I realize that. But the chances are very good that it was. Now I know exactly what I have to do, and how to do it."

  "Well," said the medical examiner, "I don't know what you mean, but again I wish you luck. May peace be with you."

  "And upon you be peace," I said, putting down the phone. While I was punishing my enemies and rewarding my friends, I decided to think about something I could do for Dr. Besharati. He'd certainly earned some kind of thanks.

  I went to sleep early that night, and the next morning I'd recovered enough to get out of bed and shower. Kmuzu wanted me to avoid any kind of exertion, but that wasn't possible. It was Friday, the Sabbath, and I had a parade of the Jaish to go to.

  I ate a hearty breakfast and dressed in the dove-gray uniform Shaykh Reda had given me. The trousers were well tailored, with a black stripe down each leg, and cut to fit into high black jackboots. The tunic was high-necked, with lieutenant's insignia already sewn on. There was also a high-peaked cap with a black visor. When I was completely dressed, I looked at myself in a mirror. I guessed that the uniform's resemblance to a Nazi outfit was not coincidental.

  "How do I look, Kmuzu?" I asked.

  "It's not you, yaa Sidi. It's definitely not your style."

  I laughed and removed the cap. "Well," I said, "Abu Adil was kind enough to give me this uniform. The least I can do is wear it for him once."

  "I don't understand why you're doing this."

  I shrugged. "Curiosity, maybe?"

  "I hope the master of the house doesn't see you dressed like that, yaa Sidi."

  "I hope so, too. Now, bring the car around. The parade is being held on the Boulevard il-Jameel, near the Shimaal Mosque. I imagine we'll have to leave the car somewhere and walk a few blocks. The crowds are still huge near the mosque."

  Kmuzu nodded. He went downstairs to get the Westphalian sedan started. I followed behind him after deciding not to take either narcotics or moddies with me. I didn't know exactly what I was walking into, and a clear head seemed like a good idea.

  When we got to the boulevard, I was startled to see just how great the throng was. Kmuzu began weaving through side streets and alleys, trying to inch his way nearer to the Jaish's gathering place.

  After a while, we just had to give up and go the rest of the way on foot. We cut our way through the mass of people; my uniform helped me a little, I think, but progress was still very slow. I could see a raised platform ahead, with a speaker's stand draped in flags decorated with the emblems of the Jaish. I thought I could see Abu Adil and Kenneth there, both in uniform. Shaykh Reda was standing and chatting with another officer. He wasn't wearing one of his Proxy Hell moddies. I was glad of that—I didn't want to deal with an Abu Adil suffering the effects of a make-believe terminal illness.

  "Kmuzu," I said, "I'm going to see if I can get up on the platform to talk with Shaykh Reda. I want you to work your way around to the back. Try to stay nearby. I may need you all of a sudden."

  "I understand, yaa Sidi" he said with a worried look. "Be careful, and take no unnecessary chances."

  "I won't." I knifed slowly through the crowd until I reached the rear most ranks of the Jaish, which was arrayed on the neutral ground of the boulevard in orderly companies. From there it was easier to make my way to the front. All along the way, I received nods and salutes from my fellow militiamen.

  I walked around to the side of the platform and mounted three steps. Reda Abu Adil still hadn't seen me, and I walked up to him and saluted. His uniform was much more elegant than mine; for one thing, I think his buttons were gold, where everyone else's were brass. On his collar, instead of brass crescents, he wore golden curved swords.

  "Well, what is this?" said Abu Adil, returning my salute. He looked surprised. "I really didn't expect you to come."

  "I didn't want to disappoint you, sir," I said, smiling. I turned to his assistant. "And how's it going, Kenny?" Kenneth was a colonel, and loving every minute in the jackboots.

  "I warned you about calling me that," he snarled.

  "Yeah, you did." I turned my back on him. "Shaykh Reda, surely the Jaish is a Muslim paramilitary force. I remember when it was a group dedicated to ridding the city of foreigners. Now we proudly wear the symbols of the Faith. I was just thinking: Is your Kenneth one of us? I would have bet that he's a Christian. Or maybe even a Jew."

  Kenneth grabbed my shoulder and spun me around. "I testify that there is no god but God," he recited, "and Muhammad is the Prophet of God."

  I grinned. "Great! You're coming along real well with that. Keep it up!"

  Abu Adil's face clouded. "You two stop your infantile bickering. We have more important things to think about today. This is our first large, public demonstration. If all goes well, we'll get hundreds of new recruits, doubling the size of the Jaish. That's what really counts."

  "Oh," I said, "I see. What about poor old Abd ar-Razzaq, then? Or is he just a stiff now?"

  "Why are you here?" demanded Abu Adil. "If it's to mock us—"

  "No, sir, not at all. We have our differences, of course, but I'm all in favor of cleaning up this city. I came to meet the three platoons I'm supposed to be leading."

  "Good, good," said Abu Adil slowly. "Splendid."

  "I don't trust him," said Kenneth.

  Abu Adil turned to him. "I don't either, my friend, but that doesn't mean we can't behave in a civilized manner. We're being watched by a lot of people today."

  "Try to hold your animosity in for a little while, Kenneth," I said. "I'm willing to forgive and forget. For now, anyway." He only glared at me and turned away.

  Abu Adil put a hand on my shoulder and pointed down to a unit of men assembled at the foot of the platform, on the right side. "Those are your platoons, Lieutenant Audran," he said. "They make up the Al-Hashemi Detachment.
They're some of our finest men. Why don't you go down there and meet your noncommissioned officers? We'll be getting ready to start the drills soon."

  "All right," I said. I climbed down from the platform and walked up and down before my unit. I stopped and said hello to the three platoon sergeants, then went through the ranks as if I were inspecting them. Most of the men seemed out of shape to me. I didn't think the Jaish would make much of a showing against a real military force; but then, the Jaish was never intended to go into battle against an army. It was created to bully shopkeepers and infidel intellectuals.

  Maybe a quarter of an hour later, Abu Adil spoke into a microphone, commanding the parade to begin. My unit had no part in it, other than to keep the civilians from interfering. Some of the specially trained companies showed off their stuff, marching and turning and juggling rifle-shaped pieces of wood.

  This went on for an hour under the hot sun, and I began to think I'd made a serious mistake. I was starting to feel weak and wobbly, and I really just wanted to sit down. Finally, the last showcase company snapped back to attention, and Abu Adil stepped forward to the speaker's podium. He harangued the Jaish for another half an hour, going on about the horror of Dr. Abd ar-Razzaq's murder, and how we all had to swear allegiance to Allah and the Jaish, and never rest until the brutal assassin had been captured and executed according to the dictates of Islamic law. I could tell that Shaykh Reda had roused every man in uniform to a barely contained frenzy.

  Then, surprisingly, he called on me to speak. I stared at him for just a second or two, and then I hurried back up to the platform. I stood at the microphone, and Abu Adil backed away. An anxious hush fell over the uniformed men assembled before me, but beyond them I could see the hordes of tens of thousands of men and women whose pent-up fury was still seeking an outlet. I wondered what I was going to say.

  "My fellow Soldiers of Allah," I began, raising my arms to include not only the Jaish, but also the mob beyond. "It is too late for anything but vengeance." A loud cry went up from the onlookers. "As Shaykh Reda said, we have a sacred duty, authorized in many places in the noble Qur'an. We must find the person who struck down our holy imam, and then we must make him taste our keen-edged justice." Another cry, this one a strange, hungry, ululating sound that made me shiver.

  I went on. "That is our task. But honor and faith and respect for the law demand that we control our anger, for fear that we revenge ourselves upon the wrong man. How, then, shall we know the truth? My friends, my brothers and sisters in Islam, I have the truth!"

  This drew a loud shout from the mob, and a surprised sound from behind me, where Abu Adil and Kenneth were standing. I opened a few buttons of my tunic and brought out the needle gun, holding it high for everyone to see. "This is the murder weapon! This is the horrible instrument of our imam's death!" Now the reaction was long and frightening. The hysterical crowds surged forward, and the foot soldiers of the Jaish struggled to keep the people from rushing the platform.

  "I know whose needle gun this is!" I shouted. "Do you want to know? Do you want to know who murdered Dr. Sadiq Abd ar-Razzaq, shamefully in cold blood?" I waited a few seconds, knowing the uproar would not subside, but pausing only for effect. I saw Kenneth start toward me, but Abu Adil grabbed his arm and stopped him. That surprised me.

  "It belongs to Police Lieutenant Hajjar, a Jordanian immigrant to our city, a man with many past crimes that have long gone unpunished. I do not know his motives. I do not know why he stole our imam from us. I only know that he did that evil deed, and he sits this very moment, not far from here, in the police precinct on Walid al-Akbar Street, content in his sinful pride, certain that he is safe from the just retribution of the people."

  I'd thought of a few more things to say, but it was impossible. From that point on, the mob became a terrifying thing. It seemed to shift and sway and shake itself, and voices were raised in cries that no one could understand, and chants and curses went up all around us. Then, in only a few minutes, I could see that a bewildering organization had taken place, as if leaders had been chosen and decisions made. Slowly, the mob animal turned away from the platform and the Jaish. It began to move southward along the lovely Boulevard il-Jameel. Toward the police station. It was going to claim Lieutenant Hajjar.

  Hajjar had foreseen the behavior of the outraged mob. He had foreseen the terror of its mindless rage. He had only failed to foresee the true identity of its victim.

  I watched, fascinated. After a while, I stepped back, away from the microphone. The afternoon parade of the Jaish was over. Many of the uniformed men had broken ranks and joined the wrathful rabble.

  "Very well done, Audran," said Abu Adil. "Excellently played."

  I looked at him. It seemed to me that he was entirely sincere. "It's going to cost you one of your most useful hirelings," I said. "Paybacks are a bitch, aren't they?"

  Abu Adil only shrugged. "I'd written Hajjar off already. I can appreciate good work, Audran, even when it's done by my enemy. But be warned. Just because I'm congratulating you, don't think I'm not already planning a way to make you pay. This whole matter has been a disaster for me."

  I smiled. "You brought it on yourself."

  "Remember what I said: I'll make you pay."

  "I suppose you'll try," I said. I climbed down the steps at the back of the platform. Kmuzu was there. He led me away from the boulevard, away from the surging mob, toward our car.

  "Please take off that uniform, yaa Sidi" he said.

  "What? Ride home in my underwear?" I laughed.

  "At least the tunic. I'm sickened by everything it stands for."

  I complied, and tossed the tunic into a corner of the backseat. "Well," I said, stretching out, "how did I do?"

  Kmuzu turned around briefly, and he gave me one of his rare smiles. "Very fine, yaa Sidi" he said. Then he turned his attention back to driving.

  I relaxed and leaned back against the seat. I told myself that the slight interruption in my life caused by Abu Adil and Lieutenant Hajjar and Imam Abd ar-Razzaq was over, and now life could get back to normal. The matter was closed. As for Shaykh Reda himself, any plans of paying that son of a bitch back the way he deserved had to be tabled until sometime in the hazy future, after Friedlander Bey was gathered by Allah into His holy Paradise.

  In the meantime, Papa and I restored our good names. We met the next day with the amir and presented him with information and evidence concerning the deaths of Khalid Maxwell, Abd ar-Razzaq, and Lieutenant Hajjar. I didn't feel it necessary to go into detail about the sudden demise of Sergeant al-Bishah in Najran, or certain other pertinent points. Shaykh Mahali then ordered one of his administrative deputies to clear us of the false charges, and expunge any mention of Khalid Maxwell's murder from our records.

  I was rather gratified by how easily I slipped back into my old routines. I was soon back at my desk, reviewing information concerning a revolutionary party that was gaining strength in my homeland of Mauretania. Kmuzu stood beside my desk and waited for me to notice him. I looked up. "What is it?" I asked.

  "The master of the house wishes to speak with you, yaa Sidi" said Kmuzu.

  I nodded, not knowing what to expect. With Papa, it was sometimes impossible to predict whether you were being summoned to receive reward or punishment. My stomach began to churn; had I earned his disfavor again? Were the Stones That Speak waiting with him to break my bones?

  Fortunately, that proved not to be the case. Friedlander Bey smiled at me as I entered his office, and indicated that I should sit near him. "I commanded you to find an elegant solution to our difficulties, my nephew, and I am well pleased with what you accomplished."

  "It makes me glad to hear it, O Shaykh," I said, relieved.

  "I have what I believe is adequate recompense for all you have suffered, and for all the labor you performed on my behalf."

  "I ask no reward, O Shaykh," I said. Well, I like rewards as much as the next guy, but it was good form to offer a token refusal.

&n
bsp; Papa ignored me. He pushed a thin envelope and a small cardboard box toward me. I looked up at him questioningly. "Take them, my nephew. It pleases me greatly to give them to you."

  The envelope contained money, of course. Not cash, because the sum was too large. It was a bank draft for a quarter-million kiam. I just stared at it for a few seconds, swallowed, and set it down again on the desk. Then I picked up the box and opened it. There was a moddy inside. Friedlander Bey was strongly opposed to personality modules on religious grounds. It was highly unusual for him to give me one.

  I looked at the label. The moddy was a re-creation of my favorite fictional character, Lutfy Gad's detective, al-Qaddani. I smiled. "Thank you, my uncle," I said softly. The moddy meant more to me than the huge amount of money. There was a kind of warm significance to it that I couldn't put into words.

  "I had the module created specially for you," said Papa. "I hope you enjoy it." He looked at me for a few seconds more. Then his expression grew serious. "Now tell me about how the datalink project is going. And I need a report on the final disposition of the Cappadocian situation. And further, now that Lieutenant Hajjar is dead, we must decide on a reliable replacement."

  Months of torment, relieved at the end by a single minute of good cheer. What more could anyone want?

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Epigraphs

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15