Well, I didn't feel noble. I gave the kid a few bucks out of self-interest, and a hundred kiam doesn't hurt my bankroll very much. "Here," I said, standing up, "you fin-ish the food. I've got to get going. I'll keep an eye out.

What's your name?"

He looked me directly in the eye. "I am Ghazi, O Shaykh. When you hear two quick low notes followed by a long high note, that means that one boy is passing respon-sibility for you to the next boy. Be careful, Al-Amin. We in the Budayeen depend on you."

I put my hand on his long, dirty hair. "Don't worry, Ghazi. I'm too selfish to die. There are too many beautiful things in God's world that I haven't yet experienced. I have a few important things holding me here."

"Like making money, drinking, playing cards, and Yas-rnin?" he asked, grinning.

"Hey," I said, feigning shock, "you know too much about me!"

"Oh," said the boy airily, "everyone in the Budayeen knows all about that."

"Terrific," I muttered. I walked by the fat black man, who'd been lingering across the way from the Japanese cookshop, and headed east along the Street. Behind me and high overhead I heard someone whistle the children's tune. The whole time I walked with my shoulders slightly hunched, as if at any moment I might be struck from behind by the butt of a pistol. Nevertheless, I made it all the way to the other end of the walled quarter without being jumped.

I got into my car, and I saw my tail dive for a taxi. I didn't care if he followed me further; I was just going home. I didn't want to run into anyone as I slunk upstairs to my apartment, but once again luck was against me. First Youssef and then Tariq crossed my path. Neither of them said anything to me, but their expressions were grave and disapproving.

I felt like the useless, drunken sot of a son wasting the resources of a great family. When I got to my rooms, Kmuzu was waiting in the doorway. "The master of the house is very angry, yaa Sidi," he said.

I nodded. I expected as much. "What did you tell him?"

"I said that you'd risen early and gone out. I told the master of the house that I didn't know where you'd gone."

I sighed with relief. "Well, if you speak to Papa again, tell him that I went out with Jacques, to see how well he was coming along with the datalink project."

"That would be a lie, yaa Sidi. I know where you've been."

I wondered how he knew. Maybe the fat black man who'd followed me wasn't working for the bad guys, after all.

"Can't you bring yourself to tell one little falsehood, Kmuzu? For my sake?"

He gave me a stern look. "I am a Christian, yaa Sidi," was all he said.

"Thanks anyway," I said, and pushed past him to the bathroom. I took a long, hot shower, letting the hard spray pound my aching back and shoulders. I washed my hair, shaved, and trimmed my beard. I was starting to feel better, even though I'd had only a few hours of sleep. I stared into my closet for a long while, deciding what to wear to my appointment with the imam. Feeling a little perverse, I chose a conservative blue business suit. I al-most never wore Western-style clothing anymore, and even when I did, I steered away from business suits. I had to have Kmuzu tie my necktie; not only did I not know how, I obstinately refused to learn.

"Would you care for something to eat, yaa Sidi?" he asked.

I glanced at my watch. "Thanks, Kmuzu, but I tarely have time to get there. Would you be so kind as to drive me?"

"Of course, yaa. Sidi."

For some reason, I felt no anxiety at all about facing Dr. Sadiq Abd ar-Razzaq, the imam of the greatest mosque in the city and one of our leading religious think-ers. That was good, because it meant that I didn't feel the need to pop a few tabs and caps in preparation for the meeting. Sober, and with my wits about me, I might come away from the appointment with my head still attached to my shoulders.

Kmuzu double-parked the car on the street outside the mosque's western wall, and I hurried through the rain and up the well-worn granite steps. I slipped off my shoes and made my way deeper through the shadowy spaces and chambers that formed an asymmetric network be-neath high, vaulted ceilings. In some of the columned areas, robedteachers taught religious lessons to groups of serious-faced boys. In others, individuals or small congre-gations prayed. I followed a long, cool colonnade to the rear of the mosque, where the imam had his offices.

I spoke first to a secretary, who told me that Dr. Abd ar-Razzaq was running a bit late that afternoon. He in-vited me to sit in a small waiting room to the .side. There was one window looking out over the inner courtyard, but the glass was so grimy that I could barely see through it. The waiting room reminded me of the visits I'd made to Friedlander Bey, in the time before I came to live in his mansion. I'd always had to cool my heels in a waiting room very much like this one. I wondered if it was a common psychological ploy of the rich and powerful.

After about half an hour, the secretary opened the door and said the imam would see me now. I stood up, took a deep breath, pressed my suit jacket with my hands, and followed the secretary. He held open a heavy, won-derfully carved wooden door, and I went in.

Dr. Sadiq Abd ar-Razzaq had placed his large desk in the darkest corner of the room, and as he sat in his pad-ded leather chair, I could barely make out his features. He had a green-shaded lamp providing light on the desk, but when I took the seat he indicated, his face sank once again into the indistinguishable shadows.

I waited for him to speak first. I squirmed a little in the armchair, turning my head a little from side to side, seeing only shelves of books reaching up out of sight to-ward the ceiling. There was a peculiar odor in the room, compounded of old, yellowing paper, cigar smoke, and pine-scented cleaning solutions.

He sat observing me for some time. Then he leaned forward, bringing the lower part of his face into the light from the lamp. "Monsieur Audran," he said in an old, cracked voice.

"Yes, O Wise One."

"You dispute the evidence that has been gathered, evi-dence that clearly proves you and Friedlander Bey mur-dered Officer Khalid Maxwell." He tapped a blue cardboard folder.

"Yes, I dispute it, O Wise One. I never even met the murdered patrolman. Neither I nor Friedlander Bey have any connection to this case."

The imam sighed and leaned back out of the light. "There is a strong case against you, you must know that. We have an eyewitness who has come forward."

I hadn't heard that before. "Yes? Who is this eyewit-ness, and how do you know he's reliable?"

"Because, Monsieur Audran, the witness is a lieuten-ant of police. Lieutenant Hajjar, as a matter of fact."

"Son of an ass!" I cried. Then I caught myself. "I apologize, O Wise One."

He waved a hand in dismissal. "It comes down to this: your word against that of a high-ranking police official. I must make my judgments according to Islamic law, ac-cording to proper civil procedure, and using my some-what limited faculties to sort truth from lies. I must warn you that unless you can provide conclusive proof of your innocence, the case will no doubt be judged against you."

"So I understand, Imam Abd ar-Razzaq. We have ave-nues of investigation yet to explore. We're hopeful of pre-senting sufficient evidence to change your mind."

The old man coughed hoarsely a few times. "For your sakes, I hope you do. But be assured that my primary motive will be to see that justice is done."

"Yes, O Wise One."

"To that end, I wish to know what your immediate plans are, as far as investigating this sad event."

This was it. If the imam was too shocked by my inten-tion, he could very well veto it, and then I'd be up the proverbial dune without a sunshade. "O Wise One," I began slowly, "it has come to our attention that no proper autopsy was performed on the corpse of Khalid Maxwell. I wish your permission to exhume the body, and have a thorough study done by the city's coroner."

I could not see the man's expression, but I could hear his sharp intake of breath. "You know that it is a com-mandment from Allah that burial follow death immedi-ately."

I nodded.

"And exhumation is permitted only in the most ex-treme and urgent situations."

I shrugged. "May I remind you, O Wise One, that my life and the life of Friedlander Bey may depend on the results of an autopsy. And I'm sure that Shaykh Mahali would agree, even if you don't."

The imam slammed his wrinkled hand down on the desk. "Watch your words, boy!" he whispered. "You threaten to go over my head on this matter? Well, there is no need. I will grant permission for the exhumation. But in return, I will say that your proof must be gathered in two weeks, not the month you were given previously. The people of the city cannot tolerate a longer delay for justice to be done." He bent over his desk and found a clean sheet of paper. I watched him write out a short paragraph and sign it.

Abd ar-Razzaq was making it almost impossible for us to clear our names. Two weeks! I didn't like that at all. We could have used twelve. I merely stood, bowed my head slightly, and said, "Then if you will excuse me, O Wise One, I will go directly to the coroner's office in the Budayeen. I do not wish to take up any more of your time."

I could not see him, and he said nothing more to me. He just handed me the sheet of paper. I glanced at it; it was an official order for Khalid Maxwell's autopsy, to be performed within the next two weeks.

I stood there in his darkened office for a few seconds, feeling more and more uncomfortable. Finally, I thought to myself, "Fuck him," and turned around. I hurried back through the sprawling mosque, regained my shoes, and got back in the car behind Kmuzu.

"Do you wish to go home now, yaa Sidi?" he asked.

"No," I said. "I need to go to the Budayeen.".

He nodded and started the car. I sat back in the seat and thought about what I'd learned. Hajjar was claiming to be aneyewitness, huh? Well, I suspected I could shake his testimony. All in all, I wasn't feeling too bad. I was even congratulating myself for the way I'd handled myself with Abd ar-Razzaq.

Then I got two phone calls that tracked mud across my nice, fresh mood.

The first one was about money. My phone rang and I undipped it. "Hello," I said.

"Mr. Marid Audran? This is Kirk Adwan from the Bank of the Dunes."

That's the bank where I kept my own accounts. "Yes?" I said warily.

"We have a check here made out to a Farouk Hussein in the amount of twenty-four hundred kiam. It has your endorsement on the back, as well as Mr. Hussein's in what appears to be your handwriting."

Uh huh. The check that poor Fuad had given to Jacques. Jacques had waited for the check to clear, then he'd withdrawn the twenty-four hundred kiam and given it to Fuad.

'Tes?" I said.

"Mr. Audran, Mr. Hussein has reported that check as stolen. Now, we're not eager to prosecute, but unless you can cover the twenty-four hundred kiam by five o'clock tomorrow, we'll be forced to call the police on this matter. You can visit any of our branches for your convenience."

"Uh, just a minute-" Too late. Adwan had hung up.

I closed my eyes and cursed silently. What was this, some kind of sting? Fuad was too dumb to pull off any-thing this complicated. Was Jacques in it, too? I didn't care. I was going to get to the bottom of it, and whoever was responsible was going to be sorry. He'd better get used to breathing fine yellow sand.

I was furious. The situation even had me muttering to myself. Maybe an hour passed. Kmuzu and I were getting something to eat at the Cafe Solace when the phone rang again. "Yeah?" I said impatiently.

'Teah, yourself, Audran." It was Lieutenant Hajjar, the expert eyewitness himself.

"I got something I need to go over with you, Hajjar," I said gruffly.

"Take your turn, noraf. Tell me, didn't you have an appointment to see Imam Sadiq Abd ar-Razzaq this after-noon?"

My eyes narrowed. "How did you know that?"

Hajjar snorted. "I know lots. Anyway, I was wonder-ing if you could tell me how, less than an hour after your visit, the next time his secretary went in to see him, the holy man ended up dead, sprawled all over his floor with half a dozen poisoned needle-gun flechettes in his chest?"

I just stared at Kmuzu's face.

"Hello?" said Hajjar sweetly. "Mr. Suspect? Would you mind dropping by the office here at your earliest con-venience?"

I just clipped the phone back on my belt. Now that I had only two weeks instead of a month to establish our innocence, I had more trouble to take care of than ever. I reached into my suit jacket for my pillcase--after all, this was another one of those moments when illicit drugs were definitely indicated-but I had left it behind in my gal-lebeya.

I asked myself, What would Shaykh Hassanein do in a situation like this? Unfortunately, the only answer was Hightail it back into the untrackable wastes of the Rub al-Khdi.

Say, maybe that wasn't such a bad idea. ...

14 I took care of both the major problems that very afternoon, which is further proof of how much I've matured. In the olden days, I would've hidden in my bedroom, deep within a fog of Sonneine, and put off thinking about my troubles for a day or two, until the matters became critical. I'd since learned that it was much easier to deal with hassles while they're still in the yellow alert stage.

I had to decide, first of all, which crisis was the more pressing. Was it more important to save my life, or my credit rating? Well, I've always been on good terms with my banker-especially since I'd become Papa's junior ex-ecutive, and the beneficiary of frequent fat envelopes stuffed with money. I supposed that the Bank of the Dunes could wait an hour or two, but that Lieutenant Hajjar might not have the same patience.

It was still raining as Kmuzu drove me to the police station on Walid al-Akbar Street. As usual, I had to pass through a crowd of dirty-faced young boys, all of whom were pressing against me and loudly clamoring for bak-sheesh. I wondered why the kids hung out here at the copshop, instead of, say, the Hotel Palazzo di Marco Aurelio, where the rich tourists were. Maybe they thought people going in and out of the police station had other things on their minds, and might be more generous. I don't know; I just flung a few kiam down the block, and they all chased after the money. As I climbed the stairs, I heard one boy whistle the familiar children's tune. I found my way upstairs to Lieutenant Hajjar's glassed-in office in the middle of the detective division. He was on the phone, so I just let myself in and sat in an uncomfortable wooden chair beside his desk. I picked up a stack of Hajjar's mail and began sorting through it, until he grabbed it back with an angry scowl. Then he barked a few words into the phone and slammed it down. "Audran," he said in a loud, greedy voice.

"Lieutenant," I said. "What's happening?"

He stood up and paced a little. "I know you're gonna get shortened by one head-length even sooner than you thought."

I shrugged. "You mean because Abd ar-Razzaq cut two weeks off the time we had to clear our names."

Hajjar stopped pacing, turned to face me, and let his face widen slowly in an evil grin. "No, you stupid mother-fucker," he said, "the whole city's gonna come after you and hang you by your heels for the murder of the holyman. With blazing torches, they'll drag you out of bed and separate you into little piles of internal organs. You and Friedlander Bey both. And it's about time, too."

I closed my eyes and sighed wearily. "I didn't kill the imam, Hajjar."

He sat down again behind his desk. "Let's look at this scientifically. You had an appointment with the imam at two o'clock. The secretary said you went in to see him about quarter past the hour. You were in Abd ar-Razzaq's office a little more than fifteen minutes. There were no more appointments until half past three. When the secre-tary looked in on the imam at three-thirty, Dr. Abd ar-Razzaq was dead."

"There's a solid hour there when someone else could've gotten by the secretary and killed the son of a bitch," I said calmly.

Hajjar shook his head. "It's an open-and-shut case," he said. "You won't live long enough to find out anything about Khalid Maxwell."

I was starting to get annoyed. Not frightened or wor-ried-just annoyed. "Did you ask the secretary if he left his desk anytime during that hour? Did you ask him if he saw anyone else during that time?"

Hajjar shook his head. "No need," he said. "Open-and-shut case."

I stood up. "What you're telling me is that I have to prove myself innocent of two murders now."

"In a hell of a hurry, too. We're not going to release the news about the imam until morning, because the amir wants us to get ready for the riots and demonstrations first. There are going to be terrible riots and demonstra-tions, you know.

You're going to get to witness them from the very middle, from inside an iron cage, is my predic-tion. If Friedlander Bey wants to clear his name as far as Maxwell is concerned, he's gonna have to do it without you. You're gonna be a stiff in a few days, unless you skip town. And believe me, you're gonna have a tough time doing that, 'cause we're watching you every minute."

"I know," I said. "The fat black guy."

Hajjar looked embarrassed. "Well," he said, "he's not one of my best."

I headed for the door. These visits with Hajjar were never very rewarding. "See you later," I called over my shoulder.

"I wouldn't be in your shoes for nothin'. Been waiting a long time for this, Audran. Where you going now?"

I turned and faced him. "Oh, I was planning to drop by the medical examiner's office in the Budayeen. I got permission from the imam to have Khalid Maxwell ex-humed."

He turned red and blew up like a balloon. "What?" he cried. "No such thing! Not in my jurisdiction! I won't allow it!"

I smiled. "Life is hard, Lieutenant," I said, letting him look at the official okay I'd gotten from Abd ar-Razzaq. I didn't trust Hajjar enough to let him touch it, though. "This is all I need. If worse comes to worst, I can get Shaykh Mahali to hold your leash if I have to."

"Maxwell? Exhumed? What the hell for?" shouted Hajjar.

"They say a murder victim keeps an imprint of his murderer's face on his retinas, even after death. Ever hear that before? Maybe I'll find out who killed the patrolman. Inshallah."

Hajjar slammed his fist on his desk. "That's just super-stition!"

I shrugged. "I don't know. I thought it was worth a peek. See ya." I escaped from the lieutenant's office, leav-ing him fuming and sucking in air and blowing it out.